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The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Story of Don Quixote, by Arvid Paulson,
Clayton Edwards, and Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Illustrated by Florence
Choate and Elizabeth Curtis

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Title: The Story of Don Quixote

Author: Arvid Paulson, Clayton Edwards, and Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

Release Date: July 20, 2009  [eBook #29468]

Language: English


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With Illustrations in Color by Florence Choate and Elizabeth Curtis


The Hampton Publishing Company
New York

Copyright, MCMXXII, by
Frederick A. Stokes Company

All rights reserved, including that of translation
into foreign languages

Printed in the United States of America



    CHAPTER                                                       PAGE


                 MADE FROM HOME                                      6

              ADVENTURES                                            14

              IS CONTINUED                                          20

              OF OUR INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN                            22

              QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA                                  24


              DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA               33

              GOATHERDS                                             37

              DON QUIXOTE                                           39

              MARCELA WITH OTHER INCIDENTS                          41

              OF THE DEAD SHEPHERD                                  45

              OUT WITH CERTAIN HEARTLESS YANGUESANS                 47

              THE INN WHICH HE TOOK TO BE A CASTLE                  50

              TO HIS MISFORTUNE, HE TOOK TO BE A CASTLE             51

              WITH OTHER ADVENTURES WORTH RELATING                  55

              OCCURRENCES                                           59

              ACHIEVED BY ANY FAMOUS KNIGHT IN THE WORLD            62


              CARRIED WHERE THEY HAD NO WISH TO GO                  68

              IN THIS VERACIOUS HISTORY                             71

              MORENA                                                73

              MORENA                                                75

              IN THE SIERRA MORENA                                  77

              WORTHY OF RECORD IN THIS GREAT HISTORY                80

              BARBER IN THE SAME SIERRA                             81

              HIMSELF                                               83

              AMUSING                                               88

              OTHER INCIDENTS                                       90

              QUIXOTE'S PARTY AT THE INN                            91

              TO AN END                                             92

              OCCURRED AT THE INN                                   95


              DELIVERED ON ARMS AND LETTERS                        102

              AND ADVENTURES                                       103


              CAME TO PASS IN THE INN                              112

              AT THE INN                                           117

              AND EARNEST                                          123

              FEROCITY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT, DON QUIXOTE           127

              WITH OTHER REMARKABLE INCIDENTS                      132

              OF HIS WIT                                           137

              TO CONVERT HIM FROM HIS ILLUSIONS                    138


              SWEAT HE BROUGHT TO A HAPPY CONCLUSION               142


    CHAPTER                                                       PAGE

              WITH DON QUIXOTE ABOUT HIS MALADY                    147


              SAMSON CARRASCO                                      153

              WORTH KNOWING AND MENTIONING                         156

              RECORDED                                             159

              CHAPTERS IN THE WHOLE HISTORY                        161


              HIS WAY TO SEE HIS LADY DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO          167


              INCIDENTS AS LUDICROUS AS THEY ARE TRUE              172

              OF DEATH"                                            175

              GROVE                                                178

              TWO SQUIRES                                          180


              OF LA MANCHA                                         187

              ACHIEVED ADVENTURE OF THE LIONS                      190

              WITH OTHER MATTERS OUT OF THE COMMON                 194


              OF BASILIO THE POOR                                  199

              OTHER DELIGHTFUL INCIDENTS                           200

              HAPPY TERMINATION                                    203


              UNDERSTANDING OF THIS GREAT HISTORY                  209

              APE                                                  210

              IN TRUTH RIGHT GOOD                                  214

              EXPECTED                                             217





              OTHER INCIDENTS, GRAVE AND DROLL                     232

              WORTH READING AND NOTING                             236

              RAREST ADVENTURES IN THIS BOOK                       238

              TOGETHER WITH OTHER MARVELOUS INCIDENTS              242



              AND TO THIS MEMORABLE HISTORY                        249

       XLI  THE END OF THIS PROTRACTED ADVENTURE                   250


              SANCHO PANZA                                         255

              DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE                            257

              IN GOVERNING                                         259

              ALTISIDORA'S WOOING                                  260


              ROUND OF HIS ISLAND                                  265

              CARRIED THE LETTER TO TERESA PANZA                   267

              SUCH ENTERTAINING MATTERS                            271

              THE DUCHESS                                          273

              PANZA'S GOVERNMENT                                   275

              THINGS THAT CANNOT BE SURPASSED                      280

              THE DUCHESS' DAMSELS                                 284

              ONE ANOTHER NO BREATHING-TIME                        286

              DON QUIXOTE                                          292

              BARCELONA                                            297


              CANNOT BE LEFT UNTOLD                                305

              THE VISIT TO THE GALLEYS                             310

              BEFALLEN HIM                                         313

              WHITE MOON WAS; LIKEWISE OTHER EVENTS                316

              OTHER EVENTS TRULY DELECTABLE AND HAPPY              317


              THIS GREAT HISTORY                                   323

              OF THIS HISTORY                                      328

              SQUIRE SANCHO ON THE WAY TO THEIR VILLAGE            331


              MADE, AND HOW HE DIED                                337


    "Don Quixote insisted that the boat had been sent by
        magic to fetch him to some great knight"        _Frontispiece_

                                                           FACING PAGE

    "Slashing right and left, dreaming that he had encountered
        the giant enemy"                                            94

    "He prayed that he should not be left to perish in the cage"   132

    "With each lash he gave out the most heartrending cries"       334





Nearly four hundred years ago, there lived in the village of La Mancha
in Spain an old gentleman of few worldly possessions but many books,
who was given to a hardy and adventurous way of life, and who beguiled
his spare time by reading the many tales of chivalry and knighthood
that were in his possession.

This old gentleman was a tall, gaunt man of about fifty, with a
lantern jaw and straggling gray hair, and eyes that had a sparkle of
madness in them. His surname was Quixada or Quesada, and though not
rich, he was well known to the country folk and had some reputation in
the community where he lived.

In his younger days he was a great sportsman and used to get up before
the sun to follow his favorite pursuits of hunting and hawking, but as
he grew older he spent almost all his time in reading books on
chivalry and knighthood with which his library was stocked; and at
last he grew so fond of these books that he forgot to follow the
hounds or even to look after his property, but spent all his time in
his library, mulling over the famous deeds and love affairs of knights
who conquered dragons and vanquished wicked enchanters.

At the time when Quesada lived, Spain was saturated with this sort of
literature, and everybody wasted much time in reading books which had no
merit or value of any kind and which were full of the most ridiculous and
impossible adventures. On the whole they were the most utter rubbish that
it was possible to print. They told about impossible deeds in the most
impossible language, and were filled with ambitious sentences that meant
nothing under the sun. Señor Quesada spent hours racking his brains to
puzzle out the meaning of something like this:

     "The reason of the unreason with which my reason is
     afflicted so weakens my reason that with reason I murmur
     at your beauty."

Or again:

     "The high heavens that of your divinity divinely fortify
     you with the stars, render you deserving of the desert
     your greatness deserves."

Poor Señor Quesada could not understand these sentences. Who could? No
man in his right mind certainly, it would have taken a madman to read
any real meaning into them. And he wasted so much time in puzzling
over them that at last he became quite mad and the words in the books
would appear on the walls of his room, written in letters of fire,
with so bright a light that they prevented him from sleeping. From
trying to read a meaning into things that had no meaning whatever,
Señor Quesada was mad--as mad as the books he had been reading.

Señor Quesada lived with his niece and his housekeeper, both sensible
women who loved him and who were much grieved over the havoc his
books of chivalry had worked with his senses. They believed that to
talk about these books made the old gentleman worse, so they refused
to answer him when he argued about knights and dragons and whether
this fair lady was an enchantress in disguise or only a mortal woman,
and whether that dragon actually did breathe forth fire from his
nostrils, or only sulphur fumes and smoke. His niece and the
housekeeper would run away when he started upon one of his favorite
subjects; so he turned to the society of the village curate, a learned
man for those times, who knew almost as much about books of chivalry
as Señor Quesada himself, and to that of Master Nicholas, the village
barber. And these three friends would sit up until dawn arguing as to
who was the better knight, Sir Lancelot or Amadis of Gaul, and how
these both compared with the Knight of the Burning Sword, who with one
back stroke cut in half two fierce and monstrous giants.

After he had become thoroughly mad from reading, and more so from such
arguments and discussions, Señor Quesada hit upon the strangest notion
that ever entered the head of a lunatic. He believed that he and no
other was called upon to restore the entire world to the ancient
conditions of chivalry, and bring back the tournaments and the
courteous knights and fair ladies whose like had existed in the times
of the famous King Arthur of Britain. Believing this, it was an easy
step for him to think that the world was still full of giants and
fierce dragons for him to vanquish, and that as a man of honor and
skill at arms he must leave his comfortable home and do battle with
them. To his disordered senses things took on a different appearance
than was actually the case--inns seemed castles, and towers and hills
appeared as giants that moved about in the distance; and Señor Quesada
could hardly wait before he could meet them on horseback and overthrow
them in battle.

To become a knight and encounter all these strange and visionary dangers
it was necessary for him, however, to have a war horse, a stout lance and
a suit of armor, and he cast about among his possessions to see what he
could find that would answer the purpose--for he had no money to buy
them, and no shop could have furnished them for him if he had possessed
all the money in Spain. In his attic he found an old suit of armor that
had belonged to his great-grandfather and had been lying there for ages,
rotting with rust and mildew in company with old chests, bedding and
other family treasures. He brought it out and scoured it as best he could
and at last made it shine with considerable brightness. But the helmet
was only partially complete, for it lacked a beaver and a visor to
protect his face, so Señor Quesada constructed these from pasteboard and
painted them to resemble the armor as closely as possible. He tried their
strength with his rusty sword, and on the first stroke cut them entirely
away; so he rebuilt them and forbore to try them again, hoping they would
be strong enough, but fearing to make a test that might undo once more
all the troublesome work that he had spent upon them.

His armor now complete, he looked in his stables for a horse to carry
him, and found there his old hack, whose every bone was visible and
who was more used to carrying sacks of potatoes and onions to market
than to bearing the weight of a knight or a man at arms. This horse
must have been at least twenty years old into the bargain, but to
Quixada's brain it appeared a mettlesome charger and he was quite sure
that his new steed would prove equal to any fatigue or danger that
might come its way in the course of his adventures. And remembering
that all the horses of famous warriors had possessed high-sounding
names he called his horse Rocinante and adopted for himself the title
of Don Quixote of La Mancha, under which name he will be known through
the rest of the present history.

Another thing, however, remained wanting--a lady-love for whose sake
he might do battle and whose affections might inspire him to endure
all sorts of dangers and hardships. So Don Quixote straightway
searched through his recollection to find one that might answer, and
hit at last upon a peasant girl named Aldonza Lorenzo, with whom it is
supposed he had been in love when he was a young man. And though
Aldonza Lorenzo was more used to winnowing wheat and caring for the
live-stock than to fine phrases and courtly manners, and though she
was no better than any of the other peasant girls who lived in her
locality, Don Quixote believed that she was a lady of high lineage and
noble birth and christened her in his mind Dulcinea del Toboso. And he
was ready to fight with any man in Spain who would not acknowledge
that she was the loveliest and most gifted lady in the world.

A lance was easily made, and now, possessed of war horse, armor,
weapons, and a glorious lady to do battle for, the poor old man was
ready, so he believed, to go forth and meet the high adventures that
he felt sure were awaiting him.



All things being ready, Don Quixote wished for no delay, and before
sunrise on one of the hottest days of midsummer, he stole from his
bed--taking care not to awaken his niece or his housekeeper--put on
his ancient armor, saddled Rocinante, and with lance in hand and sword
clattering beside him made his way across the fields in the highest
state of content and satisfaction at the ease with which his purpose
had been accomplished. He could hardly wait for his adventures to
begin, or for the chance to try the strength of his mighty arm upon
some wicked warrior or, better still, some dragon or giant; but
scarcely did he find himself upon the open plain before a terrible
thought came to his mind and one that nearly made him abandon his
adventure before it was well begun. He reflected that, according to
the rules of chivalry, he must be dubbed a knight before he could
undertake any battles or engagements, and afterward he must wear white
armor without any device upon his shield, until he had proved by
bravery and endurance his right to these privileges of knighthood. He
consoled himself, however, by resolving to have himself dubbed a
knight by the first person who came along; and as for white armor, he
determined to make his own rival the brightness of the moon by
industrious scouring.

Comforting himself with thoughts such as these, he pursued his way,
which he allowed his horse to choose for him, thinking that in so
doing he would be guided more surely and more quickly to the
adventures that were awaiting him. And as he rode along he amused
himself by quoting imaginary passages from the books that he felt sure
would be written about his noble deeds--deeds that he would soon
accomplish and that would astonish the entire world by their bravery
and hardihood. At times he would break into wild speech, calling his
lady Dulcinea by name and saying: "O Princess Dulcinea, lady of this
captive heart, a grievous wrong hast thou done me to drive me forth
with scorn and banish me from the presence of thy beauty!"

And so he went along, stringing such absurd phrases together, while
the hot sun rose and grew hotter, until it would have melted his
brains in his helmet, if he had any. He traveled nearly all day
without seeing anything remarkable, at which he was in despair, for he
could hardly wait, as we have said, for his adventures to begin.

Toward evening he came in sight of a common wayside inn, and standing at
the door were two peasant girls who looked with astonishment on the
strange figure that was approaching them. To the disordered imagination
of Don Quixote, this appeared to be a castle with four towers, and the
girls who stood in front of the door seemed ladies of noble birth and
peerless beauty. He seemed to see behind them a drawbridge and a moat,
and waited for some dwarf to appear upon the castle battlements and by
sound of a trumpet announce that a knight was approaching the gates.

At this point a swineherd who was gathering his pigs did happen to
blow a blast on his horn to scare his charges along the road; and
this, appearing to Don Quixote to be the dwarfs signal that he had
expected, he drew near in high satisfaction, while Rocinante, scenting
stables and hay and water, pricked up his ears and advanced at a brisk
trot until the inn door was reached and Don Quixote addressed the
astonished girls who were waiting there.

The girls, on seeing an armed man approaching them, had turned to seek
safety indoors, when Don Quixote, lifting his pasteboard beaver, said
to them in the most courteous manner he could command:

"Ladies, I beseech you, do not fly or fear any manner of rudeness, for
it is against the rules of the knighthood, which I profess, to offer
harm to high-born ladies such as you appear to be."

The girls, hearing themselves addressed in this strange manner and
called ladies, could not refrain from giggling, at which Don Quixote
rebuked them, saying:

"Modesty becomes the fair, and laughter without cause is the greatest

The strange language and dilapidated appearance of the speaker only
increased the girls' laughter, and that increased Don Quixote's
irritation; and matters might have gone farther if the landlord had
not appeared at this moment to see what might be the matter. When he
beheld the grotesque figure on horseback whose armor did not match and
whose mount was the sorriest one imaginable, it was all he could do to
refrain from joining the girls in their hilarity; but being a little
in awe of the strange knight, whose lance was pointed and whose sword
appeared to have both strength and weight, he spoke courteously to Don
Quixote. He told him that if he sought food or lodging he should have
the best that the inn could afford for man or beast. And the poor old
gentleman, who had been riding in the heat all day without food or
drink, climbed stiffly out of the saddle and suffered Rocinante to be
led away to the stable, cautioning the landlord to take the utmost
care of him, for he was the finest bit of horseflesh in the world. The
host, however, looking over the bony carcass of the old farm animal,
had more difficulty than before in restraining his laughter.

The girls now perceived that they had a crazy man before them and they
entered into the spirit of the occasion.

They helped Don Quixote remove his armor; but the helmet they could do
nothing with, for it was tied tightly with green ribbons about his
neck and on no pretext whatever would he hear of cutting them.

They laid a table for him at the door of the inn for the sake of the
air, and the host brought him a piece of badly soaked and badly cooked
fish and a piece of bread as black and moldy as his own armor. And a
laughable sight it was to see Don Quixote eat--for, having his helmet
on, he could not reach his own mouth, but had to be fed, bit by bit,
by one of the girls; and for drink he would have gone without
altogether if the innkeeper had not brought a hollow reed and putting
one end into the knight's mouth, poured wine through the other.

While this was going on Don Quixote heard once more the swineherd's
horn and felt entirely happy and satisfied, for he was convinced that
he was in some famous castle and that they were regaling him with
music; that the fish was trout, the bread of the whitest, the peasant
girls beautiful ladies, and the landlord the castle steward. But he
still felt distressed because he had not been dubbed a knight, and
resolved to remedy this fault as soon as his supper was finished.

As soon as he had eaten his fill, he called the landlord of the inn,
and taking him into the stable, knelt on the ground before him,
declaring that he would not rise until the landlord should grant his
wish and dub him a knight so that he could continue on his adventures
according to the laws of chivalry. For Don Quixote, as we have said,
looked on the landlord as a person of great authority, with full power
to make him a knight if he chose to do so.

The landlord was something of a wag, and well aware that his guest was
mad. He therefore decided to fall in with his wishes for the sport of
the thing; so he told Don Quixote that he would make him a knight and
gladly, that he too had been a knight errant in his time and wandered
all over Spain seeking adventures, where he had proved the lightness
of his feet in running away and the quickness of his fingers in
picking pockets, until he had swindled and cheated so many people
that he had been forced to retire to this castle of his. Here he lived
on his property--and that of other persons--and he accepted money from
wandering knights errant in return for the kindness and services he
rendered them. And when Don Quixote told him that he never carried
money with him in his travels, the landlord assured him he was making
the greatest mistake in the world and that he must not suppose that,
just because money and clean shirts were not mentioned in the books of
chivalry of the time, the knights did without them; that was not the
case at all.

At last it was decided that the landlord should dub Don Quixote a
knight on the following morning, and that the night should be spent by
Don Quixote in watching over his armor in prayer and fasting, as was
the custom with knights before they received the title of full
knighthood and could go abroad on their adventures with a strong arm
and untroubled spirit.

It had been arranged between the landlord and Don Quixote that the
watch over the armor should take place in the courtyard of the inn.
Don Quixote placed his corselet and helmet by the side of a well from
which the carriers drew water, and, grasping his lance, commenced to
march up and down before it like a sentinel on duty; and as the hours
wore by and the march continued, the landlord called other persons to
watch the performance, explaining that the man was mad, and telling of
the ceremony that was to take place in the morning. The passers-by,
viewing the steadiness with which Don Quixote paced to and fro in the
moonlight and the resolute way in which he handled his lance, were
struck with wonder both at the peculiarity of the sight and the
strange form that Don Quixote's madness had taken.

At last, however, it became necessary for one of the carriers to draw
water from the well. He did not observe the madman and he paid no
attention to the armor until he stumbled across it, when he picked it
up and flung it from him, whereupon Don Quixote raised his lance and
struck him such a blow that he fell senseless on the ground and lay
there stunned. Soon after this another carrier, who did not know of
what had happened to the first one, approached with the same object;
and Don Quixote, thinking him an enemy, also struck at him and laid
his head open with two cuts from his lance in the form of a cross.

The people of the inn heard the noise of the second encounter and came
running to the spot. When they beheld what had happened and saw the
battered condition of the carriers they commenced to throw stones at
Don Quixote, not daring to approach him; and he, shielding himself as
best he could with his buckler, defied them to draw near on pain of
their lives, and returned the abuse and hard names they showered upon
him. And he shouted at them with such a terrible voice that they
became afraid and left him alone, moved not only by his threats but by
the entreaties of the landlord, who kept calling out to them that the
man was mad and would not be held accountable should he kill them all.

The freaks of Don Quixote were not to the landlord's liking, and he
desired to get rid of the strange knight with as little trouble as
possible. He approached the well and told Don Quixote that the time
for the ceremony of knighthood had now arrived, and that all the
requirements had been met with by the watch that Don Quixote had
already performed. He pulled out an account-book in which he kept the
record of the straw and grain that he sold and bade Don Quixote kneel
down before him. Then he read out the accounts in a solemn voice as
though he were repeating some devout prayer, and the stable-boy and
the two girls who worked at the inn stood by with a candle, trying to
control their laughter. When the reading was finished the landlord
took Don Quixote's sword and tapped him sharply on the shoulder,
pretending to mutter more prayers while he was doing it, and one of
the girls girded the sword about Don Quixote's waist, saying, as she
did so:

"May God make your Worship a very fortunate knight, and grant you
success in battle!"

Thus the ceremony was ended and Don Quixote was satisfied. And then it
came about as the landlord had hoped and expected. The new knight was
so eager to set out on his journey that he saddled his horse and rode
forth at once, without paying his bill for his supper; and the
landlord was so glad to see the last of him that he made no objection
to this, thinking himself lucky to have got rid of the knight so
cheaply, and he closed the door behind him as quickly as possible,
thanking his lucky stars that Don Quixote was gone.



It was dawn when Don Quixote quitted the inn. He decided to return
home to provide himself with money, shirts, and a squire, as the
innkeeper had suggested, and so he turned his horse's head toward his

He had not gone far, however, when he heard a feeble cry from the
depths of a thicket on the roadside, as of some one in pain. He paused
to thank Heaven for having favored him with this opportunity of
fulfilling the obligation he had undertaken and gathering the fruit of
his ambition; for he was certain that he had been called on from above
to give aid and protection to some one in dire need. He quickly turned
Rocinante in the direction from which the cries seemed to come; and he
had gone but a few paces into the wood when he saw a youth, stripped
to the waist and tied to a tree, being flogged in a merciless way by a
powerful farmer. All the while the boy was crying out in his agony: "I
won't do it again, master! I won't do it again! I promise I'll take
better care of the sheep hereafter!"

When Don Quixote saw what was going on he became most indignant.

"Discourteous knight," he commanded in angry tones, "it ill becomes
you to assail one who cannot defend himself! Mount your steed and take
your lance! I will make you know that you are behaving like a coward!"

The farmer looked up and saw Don Quixote in full armor, brandishing a
lance over his head. He gave himself up for dead, then, and answered

"Sir knight, the youth I am chastising is my servant. I employ him to
watch a flock of sheep, and he is so careless that he loses one for me
every day. And when I punish him for being careless, he accuses me of
being a miser, saying that I do it that I might escape paying him the
wages I owe him. That, I swear, is a sinful lie!"

But the farmer's defense only angered Don Quixote all the more. He
threatened to run the man through with his lance if he did not release
the boy at once and pay him every penny he owed him in wages. Don
Quixote then helped the lad to add up how much nine months' wages at
seven reals a month might be, and found that it would make sixty-three
reals; and the farmer was given his choice between paying his debt and
dying upon the spot. The farmer replied, trembling with fear, that the
sum was not so great and asked Don Quixote to take into account and
deduct three pairs of shoes he had given the boy and a real for two
blood-lettings when he was sick. But Don Quixote would not listen to
this at all. He declared that the shoes and the blood-lettings had
already been paid for by the blows the farmer had given the boy
without cause, for, said he, "If he spoiled the leather of the shoes
you paid for, you have damaged that of his body; and if the barber
took blood from him when he was sick, you have drawn it when he was
sound; so on that score he owes you nothing."

When the farmer had heard his final judgment pronounced, he commenced
to wail that he had no money about him, and pleaded with Don Quixote
to let Andres, the lad, come home with him, when he would pay him real
by real. Upon hearing this Andres turned to our knight errant and
warned him that once he had departed his master would flay him like a
Saint Bartholomew; but Don Quixote reassured him, saying now that his
master had sworn to him by the knighthood that he, Don Quixote, had
conferred upon him, justice would be done, and he himself would
guarantee the payment.

The youth had his doubts, however, and he dared to correct Don

"Consider what you say, Señor," he said. "This master of mine is not a
knight; he is simply Juan Haldudo the Rich, of Quintanar."

To this Don Quixote replied that it mattered little; and the farmer
again swore by all the knighthoods in the world to pay the lad as he
had promised if he only came home.

"See that you do as you have sworn," said Don Quixote, "for if you do
not, by the same oath I swear to come back and hunt you out and punish
you; and I shall find you though you should lie closer than a lizard!
If you desire to know who it is lays this command upon you, that you
may be more firmly bound to obey it, know that I am the valorous Don
Quixote of La Mancha, the undoer of wrongs and injustices. And so, God
be with you! But keep in mind what you have promised and sworn on
pain of those penalties that have been already declared to you!"

With these words he gave his steed the spur and rode away in a
triumphant gallop, and was soon out of sight and reach. Now, when the
farmer had convinced himself that the undoer of wrongs and injustices
had entirely disappeared, he decided to give payment to the lad,
Andres, then and there, without waiting till he came home; and so he
tied him again to the tree and beat him until he was nearly dead.

"Your valiant knight has made me realize an affection for you hitherto
unknown to me. I shall give you added payment for that. Now go and
look for him!" he remarked, as he gave him a last blow and untied him.
And while the poor boy went off weeping, the lusty farmer stood there
and laughed.

Thus it was that our noble knight righted _that_ wrong. Don Quixote,
however, was thoroughly satisfied with what he had done. He thought
himself a most heroic figure and felt that he had made a most
auspicious beginning in his knighthood. And as he was taking the road
toward his village, utterly content with his own behavior, he said to
himself: "Well mayest thou this day call thyself fortunate above all
on earth, O Dulcinea del Toboso, fairest of the fair! since it has
fallen to thy lot to hold subject and submissive to thy will and
pleasure a knight so renowned as Don Quixote of La Mancha, who, as all
the world knows, yesterday received the order of knighthood, and hath
to-day righted the greatest wrong and grievance that ever injustice
conceived and cruelty perpetrated: who hath to-day plucked the rod
from the hand of yonder ruthless oppressor so wantonly lashing that
tender child."

As he was meditating and speaking in this fashion, he suddenly found
himself at four crossroads. Of course, he had to emulate other knights
who had gone before him, and follow tradition; so he paused in the
manner that all knights do in books, and pondered, and, after much
deep concern and consideration, finally decided to leave it to the
instinct of his horse. The noble animal, realizing that his master had
relinquished his will in his favor, made straight for his own stable,
of course.

After he had ridden a few miles, Don Quixote encountered six merchants
from Toledo, who were on their way to Murcia to buy silk. They were
accompanied by four mounted servants, and three who were on foot.
Scarcely had he perceived them when his romantic imagination prompted
him to believe that a fresh adventure was intended for him, and he
began to prepare for it with great gestures. He fixed himself
majestically and safely in the saddle, made ready with his lance, and
planted himself firmly in the middle of the road. Here he awaited the
arrival of the traders, who appeared to him to be real knights like
himself; and as they came close to him, he halted them with a broad
sweep of his lance, exclaiming boldly:

"All the world stand, unless all the world confess that in all the
world there is no maiden fairer than the Empress of la Mancha, the
peerless Dulcinea del Toboso!"

The thirteen men could not help but stand still at the sound of such
words; nor did they hesitate about thinking that the speaker of them
might be lacking in some of his wits. One of the travelers, however,
either was curious or had a failing for making fun of people, for he
asked Don Quixote to produce the lady before asking him to pay her his
respects. Perhaps he was skeptical of his country's harboring such a
rare beauty unbeknown to him.

But Don Quixote was not to be fooled. "If I were to show her to you,"
he replied, "what merit would you have in confessing a truth so
manifest? You must believe without seeing her; otherwise you have to
do with me in battle. Come on, you rabble! I rely on the justice of
the cause I maintain!"

The merchant with a sense of humor tried to plead for consideration.
He suggested that a portrait of the fair lady might suffice to bring
about a conversion to his conception of her beauty. But Don Quixote
was determined that they were intolerant blasphemers who simply had to
be thrashed. So he suddenly charged with such vehemence and fury that,
if luck had not interfered and made his gentle steed stumble, the
trader might have been killed. As Rocinante went down, our gallant
hero went over his head, and after he had struck the ground he rolled
for some distance. But when he tried to rise he could not: he was so
weighted down with armor, helmet, spurs, buckler and lance. To make
matters worse, one of the servants, having broken his lance in two,
proceeded to batter him with one of the pieces until it seemed as if
Don Quixote would be able to stand no more. Finally the man grew tired
and went to catch up with his party, which had continued its way.
But Don Quixote still lay on the ground, unable to get up.



When Don Quixote began to realize that he was, so to speak, anchored
to the ground, he turned his thoughts to his usual remedy, his books
on knighthood and chivalry, which, in fact, had been the cause of his
downfall. He decided that the passage to fit his case was the one
about Baldwin and the Marquis of Mantua when Carloto left him wounded
on the mountainside--for that he had been wounded by brigands he had
no doubt. So he began to feign severe suffering, rolling to and fro on
the ground, and repeating words that he had read in his books and
ascribed to Baldwin as he lay wounded; until he finally was discovered
by a peasant from his own village, a neighbor of his, whom he took for
Baldwin's uncle, the Marquis of Mantua. This good neighbor of Don
Quixote's was much concerned over his ravings. He removed the knight's
breastplate, back piece and visor, expecting to see him badly wounded;
but he found no trace of blood or marks upon him. Then he succeeded in
hoisting poor Don Quixote up on his donkey, which seemed the easiest
mount for him, while he tied the pieces of his arms on Rocinante. And
thus they proceeded toward the village. Because of his blows and
bruises, Don Quixote had a hard task sitting upright on the ass, and
he emphasized the romance of his situation by constantly heaving sighs
to heaven. But every time the peasant was driven by these sighs to ask
him his trouble, he replied in the language of a different hero from a
different book.

It was nightfall when they arrived at Don Quixote's house in the
village. His housekeeper, the curate, and the village barber were all
in confusion, for it was now six days since the old gentleman had
disappeared from La Mancha with his hack and armor. They had just come
to the conclusion that his books were to blame for his dilapidated
mentality, and agreed that they ought to be condemned to be publicly
burned, when the peasant suddenly arrived with Don Quixote himself.
They all ran out to greet and embrace him while he was still on the
donkey--he had not dismounted because he could not. He insisted that
he was severely wounded--through no fault of his own, however, but
that of his horse--and asked that they put him to bed and send for the
wise Urganda to cure him.

The good people carried him to bed, but still they could find no
wounds, although he insisted that he had been wounded in combat with
ten giants, the greatest and most bloodthirsty in the world. Then he
asked for something to eat; and then fell asleep.



Early the next morning the curate and his friend Master Nicholas, the
barber, went to Don Quixote's house to settle their grievance with the
cause of all the mischief--the books of their demented friend. The
curate asked the niece for the keys to the library, and she was only
too willing to let him have them. They all went in, followed by the
housekeeper, who grew faint-hearted as soon as she caught sight of all
the beautifully bound books in the room. She ran out as if beset,
returning immediately with a bowl of holy water and a sprinkler, with
which she implored the curate to sprinkle the room, so that none of
the magicians who might come out of the books would be left to bewitch

She was afraid that their ghosts might survive and bother her in
revenge for having instigated their banishment from this world.

The curate was amused by the housekeeper's fear. He asked the barber
to give him the books one by one, as he was afraid that among the many
there must be some innocent ones which did not deserve the penalty of
death. But both the niece and the housekeeper made emphatic and
vociferous remonstrances against such leniency and insisted that a
bonfire be made in the courtyard for all of them. Now, the barber had
a particular leaning toward poetry, and he thought that _such_ volumes
ought to escape the stake; but he was promptly overruled by the
conclusions of the niece, who reasoned that enough harm had already
been done by books. "Your worship," she pleaded with the curate, "had
best burn them all; for if my uncle, having been cured of his craze
for chivalry, should take to reading these pastoral poems, he might
take a fancy to become a shepherd and stroll the woods and pastures,
singing and piping. What would be still worse, however, would be his
turning poet; for that, they say, is both an incurable and infectious

Against such logic, strongly supported by the housekeeper, the
arguments of the two men came to nothing; and the barber saw his
favorite form of literature thrust into the heap that was being
prepared in the yard for illumination. Only a few books were saved
from this fate, and they only through the boldness of the curate and
the barber together against the united efforts of the female members
of the party. There was one volume in particular, called "The Tears of
Angelica," which the curate fought for valiantly. "I should have shed
tears myself," he said, "had I seen that book burn."



While the curate was praising the merits of "The Tears of Angelica,"
there was suddenly a tremendous outcry and noise from Don Quixote's
bedroom. They hastened to see what was the matter, and when they
reached his room they found him out of bed, sword in hand, cutting and
slashing all around him, raving and shouting, with perspiration
dripping from his body. He imagined that he was keeping at a distance
several bold and daring warriors, and he kept exclaiming that the
envious Don Roland had battered him with the trunk of an oak-tree
because of his illustrious achievements in chivalry. They finally
succeeded in forcibly putting him to bed, having wiped away the
perspiration--which he insisted was blood. He then asked for something
to eat; and when it was brought he fell asleep again.

After the housekeeper had burned up all the books that were in the
house, the curate and the barber thought it best to safeguard
themselves against their friend's fury when he should find that his
treasures had disappeared. So they decided to wall up and plaster the
room where the books had been. Two days later, when Don Quixote got up
out of bed, he went to look for his library. And it was nowhere to be
found, of course: where the door had been, there was only a wall. He
asked his housekeeper where his books were, as well as the room they
had been kept in; but she had been well instructed and blamed it all
on the devil. His niece told him that she believed a magician had
taken the room away. She had seen him, she declared, come on a cloud,
riding on a serpent; and when he had disappeared, the whole house was
full of smoke and there was no trace of either room or books. The
niece also declared that she had heard the magician say plainly that
he was the Sage Munaton.

The niece's explanation of the magic was heartily approved of by Don
Quixote. The only doubt he expressed was about the identity of the
magician. "He must have said Friston," he insisted. The housekeeper
here came to the niece's aid and stated that she did not know whether
he had said "Friston" or "Friton" or what he had said; but one thing
she was sure of was that his name ended with "ton."

This convinced Don Quixote that it was no other than the Sage Munaton,
a great enemy of his, whose vanity could not tolerate the prophecies
that Don Quixote was about to conquer in battle a certain knight whom
Munaton had befriended.

After this our worthy knight stuck to his house and home for a
fortnight. His two gossiping friends, the curate and the village
barber, did everything in their power to divert his thoughts from his
fixed idea of a revival of the days of knighthood and chivalry. But
the fire in Don Quixote's breast was smouldering: it was an undying

Near Don Quixote there lived a man by the name of Sancho Panza. He was
a farm-hand--a poor but honest fellow who had both wife and children.
Sancho Panza was not overburdened with thoughts derived from reading
books of chivalry--the simple facts being that he could neither read
nor write--nor, for that matter, with thoughts of any other kind on
any other subject, for while Don Quixote had lost his wits, Sancho had
never had any.

To this poor fellow Don Quixote would talk of his adventures by the
hour, trying to persuade Sancho that he was missing much romance by
remaining a farm-hand all his life and that he ought to become the
squire of some noble knight--for instance, himself. And so, after much
persuasion and many promises, Sancho Panza decided to adopt his noble
neighbor as his master. He was told that he must provide himself with
all the necessaries for such an important and lofty position; and he
assured his master that he would bring along his very best donkey. The
mention of this ignoble animal somewhat took the knight aback. He
ransacked his memory for any instance in which any other mount than a
horse had been used, but he could recall none. However, he could not
very well have an attendant on foot, so he decided to take him along,
mounted on his donkey. Of course, there was no doubt in his mind that
an opportunity would present itself ere long to appropriate the horse
of some rebellious knight.

One night the two sallied forth from the village, unseen. Sancho Panza
sat on his donkey, a picture of grave joviality, already seeing
himself the governor of some conquered island. Don Quixote was taking
the same road he took on his first campaign, the road that led over
the Campo de Montiel.



When they had traveled a few miles they suddenly saw thirty or forty
windmills scattered over a plain. Don Quixote pulled in his horse, his
eyes staring out of their sockets.

"Look, friend Sancho Panza!" he exclaimed. "Thirty or more monstrous
giants present themselves! I mean to engage them all in battle and
slay them; for this is righteous warfare. It is serving God to sweep
so evil a breed from off the face of the earth!"

"What giants?" asked Sancho curiously.

"Those with the long arms," replied Don Quixote.

"But, your worship," said Sancho, "those are not giants but windmills,
and what seem to be their arms are the sails that make the millstones

Hearing his squire make such a foolish remark, Don Quixote could not
quite make up his mind whether it was through ignorance, inexperience
in the pursuit of adventure, or cowardice, that he spoke like that. So
he suggested Sancho would better stay away and pray while he, Don
Quixote, fought the giants single-handed. The honor of conquering in
such an unequal combat would be so much greater for him, he thought,
if he won victory all by himself.

Don Quixote made ready for the attack by commending himself to his
Lady Dulcinea, and then he gave the spur to Rocinante in spite of the
pleas and outcries of Sancho Panza. Just at this moment a breeze began
to blow and the sails of the windmills commenced to move. The knight
charged at his hack's fullest gallop, drove his spear with such force
into one of the sails that the spear was shattered to pieces while the
poor knight fell over the pommel of his saddle, head over heels in the
air, and Rocinante fell stunned to the ground. There they rolled
together on the plain, in a battered and bruised condition.

Sancho hurried to his master's side as fast as his donkey could carry
him. He was worried beyond words, for he expected to find Don Quixote
well nigh dead, and he was not bent on giving up all hopes of
governing an island, at so early a stage. The misguided knight was
unable to move. Nevertheless Sancho Panza could not resist the impulse
to reprimand his master. "Did I not tell your worship so!" he
admonished. But Don Quixote would hear nothing, answering in a
sportsmanlike fashion:

"Hush, friend Sancho! The fortunes of war fluctuate, that's all." And
then he added his suspicion that the same Sage Friston, the magician
who had carried off his room of books, had turned the giants into
windmills so that he would be unable to boast of having conquered
them--all out of sheer envy and thirst for vengeance. What he most
bewailed, however, was the loss of his lance.

With much difficulty Sancho succeeded in placing Don Quixote on his
horse, and they proceeded on their way, following the road to Puerto
Lapice. All the while Don Quixote was scanning the woods along the
roadside for the branch of an oak-tree that he would deem a worthy
substitute for his departed spear. It seemed to him as if he had read
somewhere in one of his books that some knight had done such a thing
in an emergency.

Having reminded Don Quixote that he must sit straight in the saddle,
Sancho was in turn reminded by an inner feeling that it was time to
eat. His master, however, scorned this idea, and let Sancho indulge by
himself, while he fasted.

Finally night fell, and they passed it in the woods. There Don Quixote
chose at last the branch of an oak-tree that was to serve him as a
spear, and to one of its ends he attached the head of his broken
lance. All night long he lay looking up into the sky, visioning his
sweet Dulcinea--all for the purpose of emulating other heroes of the
past age of chivalry who could not sleep for thinking of their lady

Sancho Panza, unluckily, was stimulated in no such blessed way. He was
supported by no sweet dreams of any beloved one of his. As for his
wife, he had forgotten all about her. But as a matter of truth he had
no memory of anything, having absorbed too much fluid out of his
leather wine-bag, or _bota_, as it is called in Spanish. On getting up
in the morning Sancho Panza was grieved to find the contents of his
_bota_ decidedly diminished.

Don Quixote bravely maintained his self-inflicted hunger and
swallowed his appetite by thoughts of his past valiant deeds. They
soon started out, and again took the road leading to Puerto Lapice,
whose outlines they sighted in the afternoon. Don Quixote thought this
an opportune time for addressing his squire on the etiquette and laws
of knighthood, as they were now approaching a very hotbed of

"Under no pretext," he admonished the faithful one, "must thou put a
hand to thy sword in my defense unless it be that I am attacked by
mere rabble or base folk; in such case, thou art in duty bound to be
my bodyguard. But if my assailants be knights, thou must in no way
interfere until thou hast been dubbed a knight thyself."

Sancho promised to obey his master as nearly as his human nature
permitted him. He declared that he liked peace and hated strife, yet, if
he were assailed, he did not believe in turning the other cheek more than
once. Don Quixote saw a certain amount of reason in this; still, he asked
his squire to do his utmost to restrain himself against any such rash
impulse in the case of members of the knighthood. And Sancho Panza swore
that he would keep this precept as religiously as Sunday.

While our noble knight was thus instructing his squire, there appeared
on the road two friars of the order of St. Benedict. They were riding
mules; and behind them came a coach with an escort numbering nearly
half a dozen men on horseback and two men on foot. In the coach,
traveling in state, was a lady of Biscay, on her way to Seville.

What could this be except a plot of scheming magicians to steal away
some princess? The friars, innocently traveling by themselves, became
in Don Quixote's eyes a pair of evil magicians, and in his thirst for
adventure the nearer one assumed stupendous proportions.

"This will be worse than the windmills!" sighed Sancho, who tried in
vain to convince his master of the facts in the case.

But Don Quixote cut him short. "Thou knowest nothing of adventures,"
he said; and that settled it.

Boldly the knight went forward and took position in the middle of the

"Devilish and unnatural beings!" he cried in a loud voice, "release
instantly the high-born princess whom you are carrying off by force in
this coach, else prepare to meet a speedy death as the just punishment
of your evil deeds!"

The mules came to a standstill, their ears erect with astonishment at
such a figure, and the friars gaped in wonder. At last they recovered
sufficiently to declare that they were traveling quite by themselves,
and had no knowledge of the identity of the travelers following behind

To their meek reply Don Quixote paid no heed, but bellowed forth
furiously: "No soft words with me! I know you, you lying rabble!" And
with his spurs in Rocinante and his lance lifted he rode against the
two friars like a whirlwind, so that if one of them had not quickly
thrust himself off his mule, he would certainly have been torn to
shreds. The other one saved his skin by setting off across the country
at a speed rivaling our hero's charge.

At this stage Sancho Panza began to realize the full extent of his
position as squire to a successful knight. Over by the roadside he saw
the first friar lying breathless on the ground as a result of his
jumping off his mule in such amazing hurry. He proceeded to strip off
the friar's gown, using as a moral for doing this his own thoughts on
the subject. He reasoned that if he could not share in the honors of
battle, he at least ought to share in the spoils.

He was intercepted by some of the men attending the carriage.
Unfortunately, they were serious-minded men, and they failed to see
the joke. Sancho Panza gave them his views on etiquette pertaining to
such matters as these; but it would have been much better for him had
he not, for the men set upon him with great fury, beating and kicking
him until he was insensible. They left him lying on the ground and
then helped the pale and trembling friar to mount his mule. As soon as
he was in the saddle, he hastened to join his companion, and the two
of them continued their journey, making more crosses than they would
if the devil had pursued them.

In the meantime Don Quixote had been trying to persuade the fair
occupant of the coach to return to El Toboso that she herself might
relate to his beloved Dulcinea the strange adventure from which he had
delivered her.

A Biscayan gentleman, who was one of her attendants and rode a hired
mule, took offense at his insistence to bother her, and a fight was
soon in progress. The Biscayan had no shield, so he snatched a cushion
from the carriage and used it to defend himself. The engagement was a
most heated one, and Don Quixote lost a piece of his ear early in the
combat. This enraged him beyond words; he charged his adversary with
such tremendous force and fury that he began to bleed from his mouth,
his nose, and his ears. Had the Biscayan not embraced the neck of his
mount, he would have been spilled on the ground immediately. It
remained for his mule to complete the damage, and when the animal
suddenly set off across the plain in great fright, the rider plunged
headlong to the ground.

Seeing this, Don Quixote hastened to the man's side and bade him
surrender, at the penalty of having his head cut off. Absolutely
bewildered, the gentleman from Biscay could say nothing; and had it
not been for the ladies in the coach who interceded with prayers for
his life, the Biscayan might have been beheaded right then and there.
Don Quixote finally agreed to spare his opponent's life on one
condition: that he present himself before the matchless Lady Dulcinea
in the village of El Toboso, and it would be for her to determine his
punishment. The ladies having promised that their protector should do
anything and everything that might be asked of him, our hero from La
Mancha said that he would harm the gentleman no more.



When Sancho Panza had regained consciousness, he saw his master again
engaged in battle. He thought that the best thing he could do was to
pray, at a distance, for victory; and so he did. Soon he saw Don
Quixote emerge from the struggle as victor! Overcome by emotion and
gratitude to God, he ran to his master's side and fell on his knees
before him. He kissed his hand, then helped him to mount his steed.
All the while he did not forget the island of which Don Quixote had
promised him he should become governor. He expectantly reminded his
master of it now, and Don Quixote said to him that if things continued
to go as they had gone, there would be even greater honors in store
for him; perhaps he would become a king or an emperor, even.

Much satisfied with this prospect, Sancho lifted himself up into the
saddle and trotted after his master, who was galloping ahead at a wild
pace. Sancho, seeing him disappear in a wood nearby, steered his ass
in the same direction. He yelled to him in a loud voice, begging him
to stop.

At last our knight condescended to hear his tired squire, and waited
until Sancho caught up with him. Sancho ventured to suggest that they
hide in some church, for he was afraid that by this time the friars
had reported the happening to the Holy Brotherhood; but his master
only laughed at his simplicity and fear; and finally Sancho had to
admit that he never in his life had served so brave and valiant a
knight. However, he begged his master not to overlook his bleeding
ear, and gave him some ointment to apply to the wound. It was only
after a long discourse on the merits of the strange balsam of
Fierabras, which possessed the enchanted quality of healing bodies cut
in twain--he particularly dwelt upon the necessity of fitting the two
separated halves evenly and exactly--that Don Quixote deigned to apply
Sancho's ointment. In doing so he lamented the absence of the famous

Now, Sancho Panza saw untold possibilities for making money out of
such a remarkable remedy as this balsam. He was even willing to
relinquish his rights to any throne in its favor. So what interested
him more than anything else was the recipe for making it. But his
master told him that he would teach him even greater secrets when the
time came, and suddenly changed the subject by cursing the Biscayan,
of whom he had just been reminded by a twinge in his bleeding ear. The
sight of his shattered helmet brought the climax to his anger, and he
swore by the creator and all the four gospels to avenge himself. When
Sancho heard this, he reminded his knight of his solemn oath to the
ladies. Had he not promised them to refer the Biscayan's punishment to
the court of his Dulcinea? Being thus reminded by his squire, Don
Quixote nobly declared his oath null and void, and commended Sancho
Panza for unknowingly having made him conform with the customs of

Then he repeated his vows of knighthood and swore to capture from some
other knight a helmet as good as his own. Sancho, by this time, was
beginning to wonder whether so many oaths might not be injurious to
Don Quixote's salvation. He suggested, for instance, the possibility
of meeting with no one wearing a helmet, and asked what his master
intended to do to keep his oath in such a case. Don Quixote assured
him that they would soon encounter more men in armor than came to
Albraca to win the fair Angelica.

Unwittingly Sancho's thoughts went back to his favorite unconquered
island, and again his master admonished him to feel no uneasiness on
that score. He even bettered his chances, explaining that if the
island should disappear or for some reason be out of the question,
there were countless other realms to be considered. He mentioned the
kingdoms of Denmark and Sobradisa as some of them, and added that
these possessed advantages that no island had. These were on the
mainland and did not have to be reached by boat or by swimming.

Now Don Quixote was beginning to feel hungry, and he asked Sancho
Panza to give him some food out of his _alforjas_. Sancho made
apologies for having nothing but onions, cheese, and a few crusts of
bread to offer such a valiant knight, but Don Quixote explained that
one of the glories of knighthood was self-denial: many a knight had
been known to go without food for a month at a time. However, he
thought it advisable for Sancho to gather dry fruits from time to time
as a safeguard against overwhelming hunger. Sancho feared that his
appetite might crave food of a more substantial kind, and added that
he would garnish his meals with some poultry. His master made no
direct remonstrance to this assertion of his squire, but presumed that
not _all_ knights at _all_ times lived on dry fruit.

As soon as they had finished their repast, they mounted and continued
their way, anxious to find some inhabited place before nightfall.
When it had grown dark, they found themselves near the huts of some
goatherds, and Don Quixote decided that they should spend the night
there. Sancho had hoped that they would find some house where he could
have a comfortable bed; but his master was pleased to sleep once more
in the open. Each act of self-denial made him a more honored and more
valuable member of the knighthood.



The goatherds were cordial in their greeting to our knight and his
squire, and invited them to partake of their meal, which was just
being served on a tablecloth of sheepskin spread on the ground. Don
Quixote was given a seat of honor on a trough turned upside down.
Sancho remained standing to serve him, but his master insisted upon
his coming down to his level. To this Sancho objected. He said that he
could enjoy his food much better in a corner by himself, where he
could chew it as he pleased, without having to take into consideration
the formalities inflicted by the presence of one so much above his own
state as his worthy master. He called his master's attention to the
fact that in company like this, a humble servant like himself would
have to suppress all such inclinations as sneezing, coughing and other
natural outbursts, and, worst of all, drinking to his heart's content.
But Don Quixote would listen to no arguments and seated him by force
at his side.

All the while the goatherds were marveling at our knight's bombastic
speech and flourishing manners, and their interest was only enhanced
when Don Quixote suddenly commenced a vast and poetic discourse on the
golden age of the past. Some parched acorns he had just eaten had
served him as a reminder and this in turn as an inspiration.

Sancho took advantage of his master's long speech by paying numerous
visits to the leather wine-bag, which had been suspended from a
cork-tree in order to keep the wine cool.

Hardly had Don Quixote finished his discourse when the sound of music
was heard in the distance, and soon a good-looking youth of twenty
appeared, playing a lute. At the goatherds' request he sang a ballad
of love, which was much favored by Don Quixote. Sancho Panza, however,
felt the necessity for sleep and slyly suggested consideration on his
master's part for the men, who no doubt had to rise with the sun and
attend to their labors. This appeal did not fail to move Don Quixote,
especially since his ear again began to trouble him with pain. One of
the goatherds offered his help. He plucked some leaves of rosemary,
put them in his mouth and chewed them well, then mixed them with a
pinch of salt and put them as a plaster over the wounded ear, safely
attaching it with a bandage. As he had predicted, this proved to be an
excellent treatment.



Just as Don Quixote was about to retire for the night, a young man from
the village came to the hut and informed the goatherds of the death of a
famous villager named Crysostom. The youth said there was a rumor that
Crysostom--who had been a student and had turned shepherd--had died of a
broken heart, for love of the daughter of Guillermo the Rich. In his will
he had directed that he desired to be buried, like a Moor, at the very
place where he first saw her, at the foot of a rock by a spring in the
fields. The clergy of the village had been aroused by this and other
directions in the will, which they considered smacked of heathenism, and
objected to the carrying out of the will. Ambrosio, the bosom friend of
Crysostom--and a student who had also become a shepherd--started an
opposition to the clergy, and was determined that his dead friend's will
should be done. The young man said that the whole village was in an
uproar, and he was looking forward to interesting events in the morning,
when the burial was to take place.

Don Quixote was eager to learn something of the maiden for whose sake
Ambrosio's friend had died. One of the goatherds, named Pedro, related
to him all that he knew.

The parents of Marcela--for that was the maiden's name--and of
Crysostom were very rich people, although they were farmers. Marcela's
father and mother died when she was a baby, and she was brought up
under the care of her uncle, a priest in the village. As she grew up,
her beauty was increased with each day that passed, and her uncle had
many offers for her hand in marriage; but she would hear of none of
them. One day, to the consternation of all in the village, she
appeared dressed in the costume of a shepherdess, and declared her
intention of turning to that kind of life.

Just about this time the father of Crysostom died, leaving his great
fortune to his son, who had just finished his studies in astrology and
other learned subjects in the University of Salamanca. Crysostom
returned home together with his friend and companion Ambrosio, and
both became very well liked in the village. There Crysostom saw
Marcela and fell deeply in love with her, and he, like so many others
before him, decided to turn shepherd in order to be near her
constantly. But she was indifferent to all talk of love; and the sting
of her scorn made him take his life.

Having ended his story, Pedro advised our knight not to miss the
ceremonies that Crysostom's shepherd friends were to hold at his grave
in the morning. Sancho, who had been greatly annoyed by the goatherd's
talkativeness, was by this time beginning to think aloud that it might
be time for his master to go to bed; and Pedro begged him to sleep in
his hut, as he was afraid that the cold night air might hurt his

So Don Quixote retired for the night to the bed given him by his
hosts, and dreamed all night of his beloved one in his native village,
in imitation of other great lovers. Sancho rested, as comfortable and
unemotional as a barrel of settled wine, between his master's charger
and his own peaceful donkey.



As soon as the sun was rising in the east, Don Quixote was awakened,
and a little later they were on their way to the burial of Crysostom.

They had gone only a short distance, when they met six shepherds, all
dressed in black sheepskins and with crowns of bitter oleander and
cypress on their heads. In his hand each shepherd carried a staff of
holly. Directly behind them came two dignified gentlemen on horseback,
followed by three servants on foot. While stopping to exchange
greetings, all had learned that they were going in the same direction
for the same purpose. The two gentlemen had met the mourning
shepherds, and from them had heard the sad story of the love of
Crysostom for Marcela. That had aroused their curiosity and sorrow,
and they wanted now to do him honor.

The battle-clad Don Quixote, of course, attracted their attention, and
one of the gentlemen was eager to learn why any one should be
masquerading in armor so early in the morning. To which he got the
reply that the danger of his calling made it necessary for him to wear
it. The gentlemen could not help then but realize Don Quixote's mental
condition. But one of them possessed a restless sense of humor, and
when Don Quixote began to discourse on chivalry and knights errant, he
asked to know what these things were. Our hero then explained their
mysteries at length. He described the deeds of King Arthur, spoke of
the famous Round Table, and told the love-story of Don Lancelot and
Queen Guinevere.

In the course of these descriptions the jesting gentleman felt that he
had fully diagnosed the madness of our knight, and thought it only
fair play to beguile the journey to the burial-place by listening to
his absurdities. Now and then he would put in a word or ask a question
in order not to break the thread. For instance, he suggested cunningly
that the calling of a knight errant was as serious as that of a
Carthusian monk; and Don Quixote replied that he thought it a much
more necessary one. And as to its demands, there was no comparison, he
declared, for if ever one rose to become an emperor it was only after
tremendous sacrifice of blood and sweat.

The traveling gentleman was agreed with him on that score; but there
was one thing he did not approve of: whenever a knight went into
battle, he commended himself to his lady, instead of God. This he
thought wrong and unchristianlike. Don Quixote, however, saw no wrong
in it. It was only human, he contended, to think first of his beloved
one at so austere a moment; and, besides, often the knight errant
would say things under his breath that would not be understood. Then
only Heaven could know whether he had called upon his lady or God.

The gentleman then soon found another argument. He expressed a doubt that
all knights errant were in love, saying that some of them commended
themselves to ladies fictitiously. Don Quixote denied this emphatically;
but the traveler thought that he had read somewhere that Don Galaor, the
brother of the valiant Amadis of Gaul, never commended himself to any
particular lady, yet he was a brave and most illustrious knight errant.
All that Don Quixote replied to this argument was: "Sir, one solitary
swallow does not make summer!" and offered, as if in confidence, his
conviction that this very knight had been very deeply in love, but

At that very moment he heaved a sigh of weariness. The sigh was
misinterpreted by the traveler, however, for he asked our knight
whether he was reticent about telling the name of _his_ lady.

"Dulcinea del Toboso, of La Mancha," answered Don Quixote. And this
time he made her a princess, extolling her virtues and her beauty to
the traveler, who found it amusing to hear the knight tell of her
ancestry and lineage. First of all Don Quixote named to the traveler
the families of Spain that she was _not_ connected with, then informed
him that she was of the house of El Toboso of La Mancha. And though
this was a most modern family, one could never foretell what position
it would hold in the future.

The traveler in his turn told Don Quixote of his own family, saying
that he of course dared not to compare it with that of the fair
Dulcinea, although he never had heard of hers ere this--a confession
that surprised Don Quixote exceedingly.

During this conversation between the knight and the traveling
gentleman--who was named Señor Vivaldo--they came in sight of a score
of shepherds, all dressed in black sheepskins and crowned with
garlands. Six of them were carrying a bier on which lay the body of
the dead Crysostom. At his side were scattered some papers and books.
When they had found the resting-place that the dead man had chosen for
himself, Ambrosio, his dearest friend, spoke some words in his memory.
He mentioned how Crysostom's heart had been rent asunder by the cruel
treatment of one whom his departed friend would have immortalized to
the world in poetry, had Ambrosio not been commissioned by him to
consign the verses to the flames after having entrusted his body to
the earth.

Señor Vivaldo thought it would be a great pity to do away with such
beautiful verses, and he pleaded with Ambrosio against their consignment
to oblivion. As he was speaking, he reached out his hand for some of the
papers that were close to him, and Ambrosio considerately permitted him
to keep them. The remaining ones were burned.

Señor Vivaldo glanced through the papers eagerly and read the
title--"Lay of Despair." When Ambrosio heard this, he asked him to
read the words aloud that all those assembled might hear the last
verses of the dead shepherd. And while Señor Vivaldo spoke the
despairing lines, some of the shepherds were digging the grave for
their friend.



Señor Vivaldo had finished the last verse and was about to glance
through the rest of the papers he had saved from the fire, when
suddenly on the summit of the rock by the grave he saw a most glorious
apparition. It was no other than Marcela, the shepherdess, and
every-one was aghast at her presence. The moment Ambrosio saw her, he
became indignant beyond words and commanded her to leave. But she
remained and asked them all to listen to her. She had come there to
defend herself, she said; she knew what people had accused her of:
cruelty, scornfulness, arrogance, ingratitude, deception, and hatred.
But she hated no one, she declared. She had deceived no one. Crysostom
had loved her because of her beauty; but she had loved neither him nor
any other man. She had chosen solitude, the woods and the fields,
because of her inborn craving for freedom. Should she have forced
herself to give that up because any man chose to say, "I love you,"
while she did not love him? Was she to be blamed for Crysostom's
death. For not loving him? Would not that have been to pawn her
modesty and her womanly honor and virtue? And why should he have
wanted to rob her of them?

So she spoke; and when she had finished she waited for no reply but
turned and ran like a deer into the woods. All stood gazing after her
in silent admiration, not only for her beauty but for her frank speech
and good sense also. Some of the men seemed to be about to run after
her, having been wellnigh enchanted by her gloriously bright eyes; but
they were stopped by Don Quixote, who thundered: "Let no one, whatever
his rank or condition, dare to follow the beautiful Marcela, under
pain of incurring my fierce indignation! She has shown by clear and
satisfactory arguments that no fault is to be found with her for the
death of Crysostom. Instead of being followed and persecuted, she
should in justice be honored and esteemed by all the good people of
the world, for she shows that she is the only woman in it that holds
to such a virtuous resolution."

These words Don Quixote uttered in a threatening manner, his hand on
the hilt of his sword. Whether because of his threats or because the
grave had been dug and Crysostom's remains were about to be lowered
into it, they all stayed until the burial was over. The grave was
closed with a large stone, and then the shepherds strewed flowers,
leaves and branches upon it, and shed many tears.

The two travelers extended an invitation to Don Quixote to accompany
them to Seville, where they assured him he would find no end of
adventures awaiting him. But he told them that for the present he had
his hands full ridding these very regions of highwaymen and robbers.
He thanked them, however, and they continued their journey without our

Don Quixote now saw his duty clearly. He would search the woods and
wilds for the beautiful Marcela. He was certain that she would need
his services.

But things did not turn out as he expected.



When Don Quixote had taken leave of his hosts, he set off with his
squire into the woods where he had seen Marcela disappear. They
wandered about for some time and found no trace of the shepherdess.
Then they came to a pasture through which a brook was running, and as
they were both thirsty, warm, and tired, they decided to remain there
for their noontide meal. They feasted on the scraps that remained in
the _alforjas_, while Rocinante and Sancho's ass were left free to
pluck all the grass they desired.

Now, Fate would have it that at that very hour a band of Yanguesans
were resting nearby, with their ponies let loose in the pasture. As
soon as the ponies were discovered by Rocinante, he wanted to exchange
friendly greetings with them, so he set off at a brisk trot in their
direction. But the ponies seemed to have no desire to strike up an
acquaintance with an unknown hack, for they arrogantly turned their
backs on him and commenced to snort and kick and bite until the saddle
fell off Rocinante and he was left quite naked. By this time the
Yanguesans had heard the commotion and rushed up, armed with sticks,
and with these they thrashed poor Rocinante so soundly that he fell to
the ground in a heap.

Just at this time Don Quixote and Sancho, having finished their
repast, went to look for their chargers. As soon as Don Quixote had
taken in the situation, he realized that these were no knights errant
and confided this to his squire, charging him to help him in his
battle for Rocinante's honor. Sancho made vehement pleas for
abstaining from vengeance, seeing the great numbers of the enemy; but
his master's conviction that he alone counted for a hundred eased his

Don Quixote attacked at once and cut off a portion of his opponent's
shoulder; Sancho fought bravely too. But when the men saw that they
were fighting such a small number they set upon them, all at one time,
and after a few thrusts they had unseated our knight and his squire,
both sorely battered. Then, fearing the hand of the law, the
Yanguesans set off in great haste.

When Sancho came to, he was certain that all his bones were broken,
and he feebly turned to his master saying that he only wished that he
had at hand the marvelous balsam of Fierabras, of which his master had
spoken. Sancho lamented the lack of it no more than Don Quixote, who
swore that within two days he would have the potion in his possession.
As to his wounds, he took all the blame upon himself: he felt that it
was God's punishment for having engaged in battle with ordinary rabble
like these carriers, and decided that henceforth he would have Sancho
alone chastise those who had not been dubbed knights.

To this Sancho took exception, for he maintained that he had wife and
children to support, and was by nature a peaceful, meek and timid man.
He called upon God to forgive in advance all the insults man or beast
might offer him in the future and for all times; but at this Don
Quixote took him to task and admonished him not to lose his valor in
attacking and defending himself in all sorts of emergencies.

Sancho's soft heart now turned to Rocinante, who had been the cause of
all the trouble. The poor horse was in a sorry plight. So it was
considered best that Don Quixote--who could not sit upright--should be
slung across his servant's donkey. This decision was reached when Don
Quixote remembered that Silenus, the teacher of the God of Laughter,
had entered the city of the hundred gates mounted on a handsome ass.

When his master had been secured and Rocinante raised from the ground,
Sancho took the two beasts by the halter and led them out to the road,
and from there they proceeded on their way. Soon Sancho saw the
outlines of an inn, which Don Quixote insisted must be a castle, and
before they had finished their dispute, they found themselves at the
gate and entered.



When the keeper of the inn saw the sorry body of the knight on the
ass, he became anxious to learn what had happened to him. His wife was
a kindly and good-natured woman, and when Sancho had explained that
his master had fallen from a rock, she and her pretty daughter offered
to care for him. The daughter, and a one-eyed Asturian servant-girl,
with turned-up nose and high cheek-bones, made a bed for Don Quixote
on four rough boards in a garret, where a carrier was also quartered.
Stretched on this bed Don Quixote was attended by the innkeeper's
wife, who soon covered him with more plasters than he had quilts. In
the meantime she, her daughter, and the Asturian girl, all curious,
questioned Sancho about his master.

Sancho told, in as thrilling words as he could command, of their
marvelous adventures; to all of which they listened with astonishment.
The Asturian servant nearly stared her one eye out of her head. She
asked Sancho Panza, trembling with excitement, what a knight errant
was. To this Sancho replied that a knight was an adventurer, who one
day might be the poorest and meanest of men, and the next day emperor,
with crowns and kingdoms in abundance to give away to his squire and
underlings. Here the women expressed surprise that he himself,
judging by appearance, did not possess even so much as a small strip
of land. He then confided to them that he and his master had been
going but a short time; that as yet it was much too soon; that the
adventures they had met with so far were but a beginning and not
worthy of mention.

Don Quixote, who had been listening to everything his squire said, now
sat up in bed and informed them of the great honor he had conferred
upon them by being in their house; he told them of his indescribable
gratitude to them; and of his love for his Dulcinea del Toboso of La

The women, not being accustomed to such language, which seemed to them
more difficult to understand than Greek, stared at him in bewilderment;
then, thanking him for his courtesy, they left him while the Asturian
plastered Sancho, who seemed to be in need of treatment as sadly as his



The following morning Sancho, feeling his pains even more, reminded
his master of the famous balsam he was to make. Don Quixote himself
was anxious for it too, so he sent Sancho to an imagined fortress for
some oil, wine, rosemary and salt. He mixed these ingredients in a
pot, and boiled them. Then he poured the mixture into a tin flask,
crossed himself and repeated innumerable paternosters and ave-marias.
When he had nearly exhausted himself doing that, he swallowed a good
portion of the liquid; and immediately he began to vomit and perspire,
while his face and body contracted in the most horrible spasms. He
asked to be put to bed at once, and they let him sleep for three
hours. When he woke he felt so relieved that he really thought he had
hit upon the remedy of Fierabras.

Seeing his master's miraculous recovery, Sancho begged to be permitted
to drink some of the wonderful liquid, and Don Quixote gave him a dose
of it. Unlike his master, Sancho retained what he had drunk for some
time before letting it all come up again, but in the meantime his
agony was insufferable. He was seized with such gripings and faintness
that he was sure his last hour had come. He even cursed his master for
having given him such terrible stuff; but Don Quixote said that he had
only now come to realize that the remedy was made solely for those who
had been dubbed knights: whereupon Sancho, writhing in convulsions
cursed him still more. Sancho's agony lasted for several hours.

In the meantime Don Quixote himself, being anxious for new adventures,
had saddled Rocinante. He had to help his squire mount the ass, for
Sancho still was in a sorry condition. All the folk at the inn had
gathered to see them depart, and when Don Quixote's eyes fell on the
beautiful young daughter of the innkeeper, he heaved a heavy sigh;
but no one there realized the soul or the reason of it, for they all
thought it must be from the pain in his ribs.

As he was about to leave, the valiant knight called the innkeeper and
asked him with profound gravity whether he had any enemies that
remained unpunished; if so, he, Don Quixote, would chastise them for
him. The innkeeper answered shortly that he could take care of his own
grudges; all he asked of our knight was payment for lodging and for
what he and the beasts and the squire had consumed.

"Then this is an inn?" cried Don Quixote, who could hardly believe his
ears. He ransacked his memory for any incident when knight had ever
paid for food and lodging, and, unable to remember one, raised his
lance, turned Rocinante, and set off at a quick gallop, leaving Sancho

The innkeeper immediately took steps to attach the squire for the
unpaid debt; but Sancho's stolid indifference to his representations
only tended to prove the truth of the old proverb: like master, like
servant. He argued that it was not for him to tear down traditions of
noble knighthood.

Unfortunately for Sancho, he was overheard by a good many guests at the
inn, rollicking fellows, who were on the alert for amusement. These men
seized a blanket, dismounted the squire unceremoniously, placed him in
the middle of the blanket, and proceeded to hoist him, not gently, high
in the air. This movement no doubt caused a return of Sancho's
stomach-ache, for he commenced to groan and scream helplessly. His
screams were heard far off by his master, who, believing that some new
and glorious adventure was at hand, spurred his hack into a playful
gallop and returned to the inn.

The gates were closed, but over the wall the knight could see the
tricks that his faithful follower was made to perform in the air and
on the blanket, and he boiled with rage, unable to come to the rescue,
for he could not dismount because of stiffness. Finally, when the men
had been sufficiently amused, they stopped their sport, then mounted
Sancho with no little kindness on his ass and bade him godspeed on his
journey. The one-eyed Asturian compassionately offered the poor fellow
some water to drink; but seeing this, Don Quixote commenced to
gesticulate wildly, waving a tin flask in the air, and crying:
"Sancho, my son, drink not water, for it will kill thee! See, here I
have the blessed balsam: two drops of it will restore thee!"

His master's advice did not appeal to the squire, and he replied
rather cuttingly that Don Quixote ought to remember that he was not a
knight. Saying this he put the cup the lass had offered him to his
lips. But he found that it was not wine but water. He begged her to
exchange it, which she did with Christian spirit, paying for it
herself. The squire, having drunk the wine, spurred his ass toward the
gate, and the innkeeper let him depart without further payment,
having, unbeknown to Sancho, appropriated his _alforjas_.



Don Quixote told his squire he was certain that the inn was an
enchanted castle, and blamed his transgressions of the laws of
chivalry for all their mishaps; for he imagined that, had he abstained
from laying hands on the rabble and base folk, these would not have
occurred. His being unable to get out of the saddle and climb over the
wall, he ascribed to enchantment as well. Sancho thought this might be
the moment for reforming his master. He suggested that it was harvest
time at home; and reminded the knight of the fact that of all his
battles he had come out victorious but once, when he fought with the
Biscayan, and then with half of his ear lost, not to speak of all the
damage done to his armor.

But Don Quixote was in no mood to contemplate past disasters, for in
the distance he suddenly perceived rising clouds of dust, and what
could it be but two opposing armies making ready for battle; since the
clouds were seen on either side of the road! He made Sancho believe
they were the great armies of the mighty emperor Alifanfaron and his
enemy, the king of the Garamantas, Pentapolin of the Bare Arm,
explaining--on seeing a bare-armed shepherd--that this lord always
went into battle in this manner.

Sancho Panza asked what they should do. His master replied that their
duty was clear: they should, of course, help the weak and needy. Then
he went on to explain that the reason for the feud was the pagan
Alifanfaron's wish to marry the beautiful and Christian daughter of
Pentapolin, and her father's refusal to sanction the marriage unless
the emperor became a convert. Immediately Sancho's instinct for
righteousness made him declare himself for Pentapolin, and he wanted
to fight for him. This spirit pleased Don Quixote tremendously, for,
he said, it was not required of dubbed knights to engage in feuds of
this sort; thus Sancho would have a chance to distinguish himself all

Scratching his head, Sancho now began to worry about his faithful
donkey, for he believed it was not good taste to go into battle
mounted on an ass, and if he dismounted, he was afraid his Dapple
would be lost in the ensuing tumult. Don Quixote, however, calmed his
fears. There would be hundreds of riderless horses after the battle,
from which both of them might choose; and he asked Sancho to follow
him to a hill nearby that he might point out to his valiant squire the
great and illustrious knights of the two armies. He cried out name
after name, the last one always more illustrious than the previous
one. But Sancho could see nothing but the two flocks of sheep and the
shepherds, and he said so.

"How can you say that!" cried Don Quixote. "Do you not hear the
neighing of the steeds, the braying of the trumpets, the roll of the

Sancho answered in despair that he could hear nothing but the
bleating of ewes and sheep. To this his master explained that often
fear deranged the senses and made things appear different from what
they were. Therefore, being certain that Sancho had suddenly become
possessed of fear, he put the spurs in Rocinante and charged down the
hill like a flash of lightning, determined to down the pagan emperor.

Lifting his lance, he galloped into the midst of the sheep, and
commenced spearing right and left. The shepherds, panic-stricken, used
their slings. Stones hit his head and body, but it was not until a
large one struck him in the ribs that he imagined himself really
wounded. He stopped in the midst of the furious battle, and suddenly
remembering his flask of balsam, drew it out, put it to his mouth, and
was about to swallow a quantity of it when there came a stone that
took the flask out of his hand, and another one that smashed out three
or four of his teeth. Don Quixote was so astonished and the force of
the blow was so sudden that he lost his reins and fell backwards off
his horse. When the shepherds came up and saw what they had done to
him, they quickly gathered their flocks and hastened away, taking with
them the seven sheep that Don Quixote killed with his spear.

During this rampage, Sancho Panza was nearly beside himself where he
stood on the hill. He was tearing his hair and beard, wishing he had
never laid eyes on his master, and berating himself for ever having
joined in his mad adventures. When the shepherds had disappeared, he
ran to his master's side.

"Did I not tell your worship," he reproached the prostrate knight,
"that they were not armies, but droves of sheep!"

But again our hero blamed his misfortune on his arch-enemy, that
cursed Sage Friston, who had falsified the armies in such a way that
they looked like meek and harmless sheep. Then he begged his squire to
pursue the enemy by stealth that he might ascertain for himself that
what he had said was true; for he was sure that ere they had gone very
far they would resume their original shape.

However, before Sancho Panza had time to make up his mind whether to
go or not, his master's sip of the balsam during the battle suddenly
began to take effect, and Sancho's presence became for the moment a
necessity. Having gone through this ordeal, Don Quixote rose and asked
his squire for a remedy for hunger. It was then they discovered that
the _alforjas_ had disappeared, with all its precious contents. Both
were dejected. Don Quixote tried to impart, out of the abundance of
his optimism for the future, new hope to the discouraged Sancho. It
was a difficult task, and he might have failed, had not the loss of
his teeth and the sorry plight he was in made Sancho sway from his
intentions of home-going. When, at his master's request, the squire
put his finger in Don Quixote's mouth in order to learn the extent of
the damage done in that region of his body, his heart was touched by
the terrible devastation there. He could not, of course, leave his
master to shift for himself on the highways in such a condition. So he
consented to remain, and they proceeded along the road, hoping that
they would soon come to a place where they could find shelter for the
night, as well as something with which to still their hunger.



Night had fallen, yet they had discovered no place of refuge.
Suddenly, in the darkness, they saw a number of lights that came
closer and closer without their being able to make out what it was.
Sancho commenced to shake like a leaf, and even Don Quixote was
frightened and muttered a paternoster between his teeth while his hair
stood on end. They withdrew to the roadside, from where they soon
distinguished twenty bodies on horseback, all dressed in white shirts,
and carrying lighted torches in their hands. With chattering teeth
Sancho stared at this awe-inspiring procession, which was not yet at
an end, for behind the mounted bodies there came others, these in
black and on mule-back, and surrounding a bier, covered with a large
black cloth. All the while a quiet, solemn mumbling came from the
moving figures, and Sancho Panza was now so stricken with fear that he
was almost paralyzed.

Don Quixote's courage--which likewise had been rather shaky at this
passing of ghostlike beings, at such a time of the night--suddenly
revived and mounted to such heights that he decided he would ask where
they were carrying the wounded king on the bier. This he did without
delay. But such a question seemed silly and out of place to one of
the guardians of the corpse, and he commanded the knight to move on.
This angered Don Quixote beyond measure. He seized the man's mule by
the bridle; but this, in turn, annoyed the mule, which rose on its
hind legs and flung its rider to the ground. Another man came up to
Don Quixote and tried to talk reason to him, but to no avail, and in
the disturbance that followed the procession was soon scattered over
the fields and plains, with torches glimmering from all points like so
many eyes in the black night.

While our knight errant was lunging with his spear in all directions,
the meek followers of the dead body became ensnared in their skirts
and gowns and long white shirts, and fell head over heels wherever
they happened to be, in ditch or field. Moans, groans, and prayers
were intermingled, and they all were convinced that the procession had
been interrupted by the devil himself, come to carry away the body of
the dead man.

When the battle had ceased, Don Quixote approached the man who was flung
by his mule, to make him his prisoner. The poor man declared that Don
Quixote had made a grave mistake; that the dead man was not a king and
had not fallen in battle, but a gentleman who had died from fever; and he
himself was a poor servant of the Holy Church who could harm no one. On
hearing this confession Don Quixote made a slight apology for having
mistaken him in the dark for something evil, if not for the very devil,
explaining that since it was his sworn duty to right all wrongs, he had
only set out to do so. But the worthy ecclesiastic was not easily
appeased, and before making his departure, he unceremoniously
excommunicated his attacker in flowing and flourishing Latin.

Sancho, moved by a desire to alleviate the sting of the outburst,
called out after him: "If the gentleman should wish to know who was
the hero who served them thus, your worship may tell them he is the
famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, otherwise called the Knight of the
Rueful Countenance."

Don Quixote asked his squire why he called him thus; and Sancho
replied that the loss of his teeth had given his master a face so
sorry looking that he could find no milder name to describe its
ugliness. Don Quixote laughed at the compliment; nevertheless he
decided to adopt Sancho's meaning name, and also to have his own
rueful face commemorated on his shield at the first opportunity.

After this conversation Sancho persuaded his master to continue their
journey; although Don Quixote was eager to view the bones of the
deceased man, and Sancho had some difficulty in preventing him from
doing so.

Sancho had made his coat into a sack and filled it with the provisions
of the clergy; and so, when they arrived in a valley where they found
an abundance of grass, they ate all the meals they had been missing.
Their repast would have been complete had they had some wine; but they
did not have even water.



Sancho's thirst drove him to use his instincts in search for drink. He
judged by the rank grass that there must be water nearby. So, leading
their mounts, Don Quixote and Sancho came in the darkness to a meadow,
and they had gone only a short distance when they heard the welcome
sound of falling water. Then suddenly a most tremendous, ear-splitting
noise came out of the darkness, a din like the beating of gigantic
hammers, and added to this a shifting wind. All these furious sounds,
the mystery of them, and the blackness of the night, might have
intimidated any heart, however stout; but it only made Don Quixote
leap like a flash upon his horse. Turning to Sancho, he cried: "I am
he who is to revive the Knights of the Round Table, the Twelve of
France, and the Nine Worthies; he who is to consign to oblivion the
whole herd of famous knights errant of days gone by; he for whom all
great perils and mighty deeds are reserved. Therefore, tighten
Rocinante's girth a little, and God be with thee! Wait for me three
days and no more. If in that time I come not back, thou canst return
to our village, and thence thou wilt go to El Toboso, where thou
shalt say to my incomparable Lady Dulcinea that her captive knight
hath died in attempting things that might make him worthy of being
called her own."

These words made Sancho weep copious tears, and he begged his master
not to undertake so dreadful an adventure. He even offered to
sacrifice himself to such an extent as to go without water for three
days, if his master would only return. When Don Quixote was firm in
his resolve, Sancho decided that this was a case where the ends
justified the means; therefore while tightening Rocinante's girth, he
tied the horse's forelegs, so that when Don Quixote was going to ride
off, his charger could move only by fits and starts. The more his
rider spurred him, the more impossible it became for Rocinante to
stir. Sancho had no great difficulty in persuading his master that
this was a sign from above that he ought not to pursue any phantom
adventure at that hour of the night, but wait until daybreak. Don
Quixote resigned himself to do so, although it nearly made him weep,
while Sancho tried to soothe his outraged feelings by telling amusing
stories in a laborious way.

At daybreak Sancho stole over to Rocinante and untied his legs. The
horse immediately became spirited, and when Don Quixote saw this, he
believed it a sign from heaven. Again he took a touching leave of his
squire--who began to cry, as he had done before--and gave the spur to
his steed. Sancho was resolved to follow his master to the end, so he
took his donkey by the halter, as was his custom, and led him on foot
in pursuit of his knight errant.

They passed through a meadow that was fringed with trees, then came
upon some huge rocks with cascades of water pouring over them. Below
stood a row of dilapidated houses. It was from these houses that the
din and noise emanated. As Rocinante came close to the racket, he
began to make hysterical movements, pirouetting backward and forward,
and Don Quixote crossed himself, commending himself to God and his
Lady Dulcinea.

Coming up cautiously from behind the houses, Don Quixote peered around
the corner, and there beheld the cause of the awe-inspiring din--six
hammers of the kind that were used in mills.

Sancho could not help himself. He burst into uncontrollable laughter,
shaking from head to foot. Don Quixote was mortified with shame and
astonishment. And when he heard Sancho's laughter behind him, he broke
into a rage, during which he repeated almost every word he had spoken
the night before, when he was about to ride away to adventure on a
three-legged horse. But Sancho was helpless. Four distinct times he
broke into a fit of mirth, and finally his master struck him a blow on
the body with his spear. Then he calmed down, and Don Quixote scolded
him for his hilarity, saying that no such familiarity would be
tolerated in the future. He quoted various chapters from books of
chivalry, and cited Gandalin, squire to Amadis of Gaul. There, he
said, was a model squire, for he would always address his lord with
cap in hand, his head bowed down and his body bent double. And there
were many others to look to. He mentioned a few, the most shining
examples. Then he decreed that from that day on respect must be the
barrier between squire and knight in all their intercourse. He spoke
also about his squire's wages and the treasures and islands that were
to be his in time to come. He told Sancho not to worry, for if he
should not pay him his wages, he had at any rate mentioned him in his
will. From the first he had considered everything; he knew the world,
and what a hazardous task he had set before himself.



It started to rain, and Sancho suggested the fulling-mills as a place
of refuge; but Don Quixote had taken such an aversion to them that he
would not listen to it, and they continued riding, taking the roadway.

Suddenly they saw a man on horseback, who had on his head something
that shone like gold, and at once Don Quixote exclaimed: "There comes
towards us one who wears on his head the helmet of Mambrino,
concerning which I took the oath thou rememberest."

Sancho's only reply to this was that he did not want anything more to
do with any fulling-mills; and his master entirely failed to fathom
the connection. Sancho then said he could plainly see that the man's
horse was an ass and that the man had something on his head that

The truth of the matter was that in the neighborhood were two villages
so small that the apothecary and barbershop in one of them had to
serve for both. The village barber had just been summoned to shave and
bleed a patient in the adjoining community, so he mounted his ass,
armed with a brass basin for the bleeding, and set off. He had got
about half-way, when it commenced to rain. Having a new hat, he
covered it with the clean basin, that glittered like gold.

But Don Quixote had more sense than his squire, of course, and pursued
the unknown knight with the helmet at Rocinante's wildest gallop. When
the fear-stricken barber realized that Don Quixote's uplifted spear
was aimed at him, he promptly threw himself from his ass and ran all
the way home without stopping, leaving his brass basin behind as a
trophy for our hero, who could not understand why this helmet had no

"That pagan must have had a very large head," remarked Don Quixote,
turning the basin round and round, trying to fit it to his own head,
now this way, now that.

"It looks exactly like a barber's basin," said Sancho Panza, who had
all he could do to keep from bursting into laughter.

Don Quixote treated this blasphemous thought with scorn, and said he
would stop at the next smithy to have its shape changed. His next
concern was his stomach; and when they found that the barber's ass
carried ample supplies, they soon satisfied their appetites. Sancho
now turned the conversation to the rest of the spoils of war; but Don
Quixote was unable to make up his mind that it was chivalrous to
exchange a bad ass for a good one, as was his squire's wish; so Sancho
had to satisfy himself with the barber's trappings.

Then they set out again. Soon Sancho felt the need of unburdening
something he had had on his heart for some time. He suggested that
instead of roaming about seeking adventures which no one ever witnessed
and which therefore remained unsung and unheralded, they go and serve
some great emperor engaged in war, so that their achievements and valor
might go down to posterity. This struck a resonant chord in his master's
heart. In fact, he went into raptures over it, and commenced to rant
about all the great honors the future had in store for the Knight of the
Rueful Countenance. He cunningly surmised that their first task would be
to find a king who had an uncommonly beautiful daughter, for of course he
had to marry a princess first of all. The plan excited him to such an
extent that for a moment he forgot about the existence of his Dulcinea.
The only thing that worried him was his royal lineage; he could not think
of any emperor or king whose second cousin he might be. Yet he decided
not to trouble too much about that; for were there not two kinds of
lineages in the world? And Love always worked wonders: it had since the
beginning of time. What would the princess care, if he _were_ a
water-carrier's son? And if his future father-in-law should object, all
he would have to do would be to carry her off by force.

As Don Quixote went on picturing himself in the most romantic rôles in
the history of this as yet unknown kingdom, Sancho began to think it
was time for him to be considered as well, when it came to bestowals
of honor. Once he had been beadle of a brotherhood, and he had looked
so well in a beadle's gown, he said, that he was afraid his wife would
burst with pride when she saw him in a duke's robe, with gold and lace
and precious stones. Don Quixote thought so, too, but admonished him
that he would have to shave his beard oftener, as it was most unkempt.
Sancho replied that would be an easy matter, for he would have a
barber of his own, as well as an equerry; he knew that all men of fame
kept such a man, for once in Madrid he had seen a gentleman followed
by a man on horseback as if he had been his tail. He inquired why the
gentleman was being followed in that manner and learned it was his
equerry. Don Quixote thought Sancho's idea to have a barber was an
excellent one, and Sancho urged his master to make haste and find him
his island, that he might roll in his glory as a count or a duke.



Hardly had they finished their conversation, when a gang of convicts
came along on the road, guarded by two men on horseback and two on

"Galley-slaves," remarked Sancho Panza laconically.

"If they are going against their own free will, it is a case for the
exercise of my office," answered Don Quixote.

He approached their custodians and asked to know what crimes these men
had committed against his majesty the King. They answered it was not
his business.

"Nevertheless, I should like to know," insisted Don Quixote, and he
used such choice and magic language that one of the guards was induced
to give him permission to ask each one of the men about his crime and

Don Quixote had questioned every one but the twelfth, and when he came
to him he found that he was chained in a way different from the rest.
This prisoner was a man of thirty, and crossed-eyed. His body was
weighted down by very large irons and especially heavy chains, his
hands were padlocked and so secured he could not raise them. Don
Quixote asked why he was thus overburdened, and got the reply that he
had committed more crimes than all the rest together. The guard then
told the knight that the man had written a story of his unfinished
life, and that he was no other than the famous Gines de Pasamonte. The
culprit strongly objected to hearing his identity mentioned, and there
ensued a furious battle of words between him and the guard. The latter
lost his temper and was about to strike the slave a blow, when Don
Quixote interfered, and pleaded for more kindly treatment. It seemed
only fair to him that they, with their hands tied, might be permitted
a free tongue. He grew fiery in his defense of them, reminded the
guard that there was a God in heaven who would punish all sinners. He
ended by requesting their immediate release.

This demand seemed worse than absurd to the guard, who wished him
godspeed on his journey, advised him to put the basin straight on his
head, and told him not to go looking for trouble. This was too much
for our knight. He set upon his jesting adversary with such speed and
suddenness that the musket fell out of the guard's hand. And the other
guards were so taken aback at what was going on, and there was such
confusion, that they did not notice Sancho untying the arch-criminal
Gines. They suddenly saw him free, and with him the rest of the
slaves, who had broken the chain; whereupon the guards fled in all
directions as fast as their legs could carry them.

When the fray was over, Don Quixote asked the galley-slaves to gather
around him, and to show him reverence for the deed he had done. He
further demanded that they, armed with their chains, proceed in a
body, to El Toboso to pay their respects to the fair Dulcinea. Gines
attempted to explain the necessity of each one hiding himself,
separately, in order to escape the pursuers, and offered to send up
prayers for her instead; but Don Quixote would not listen to any
argument. At last Gines decided he was quite mad, and when Don Quixote
started to abuse him, he lost his temper, and they all attacked the
knight with a rain of stones, until Rocinante and he both fell to the
ground. There they belabored him savagely. Sancho had taken refuge
behind his donkey, but the convicts found him, stripped him of his
jacket, and left him shivering in the cold.

While Don Quixote lay there, fearing the vengeance of the law and the
Holy Brotherhood for what he had done, he was also reviewing in rage
the ingratitude of mankind and the perversity of the iron age.



Sancho at last convinced his master that they had best hide in the
Sierra Morena mountains for a few days, in case a search should be
made for them; and Don Quixote was pleased to find that the provisions
carried by Sancho's ass had not disappeared. When night fell they took
refuge under some cork-trees between two rocks. Fate would have it
that to this very place should come that night the convict Gines.
While Sancho was slumbering peacefully, Gines stole his ass; and by
daybreak the thief was already far away. Don Quixote, awakened by
sorrowful wailing, in order to console his squire, promised him three
of his ass-colts at home in exchange. Then Sancho's tears stopped. But
he now had to travel on foot behind his master, and he tried to keep
up his humor by munching the provisions it had become his lot to

Suddenly he observed that his master had halted, and was poking with
his lance into some object lying on the road. He quickly ran up to him
and found an old saddle-pad with a torn knapsack tied to it. Sancho
opened it covetously and came upon four shirts of excellent material,
articles of linen, nearly a hundred gold crowns in a handkerchief, and
a richly bound little memorandum book. The little volume was all that
Don Quixote kept for himself. Brimful of curiosity, he read it through
and learned that it contained the bemoanings of a rejected lover.

Meantime Sancho Panza's great discovery of the gold coins had entirely
banished from his memory all the suffering and pain and humiliation he
had had to go through since he had became a squire. But Don Quixote
was anxious to find out something about the owner of the knapsack, for
he was convinced there was some very strange adventure connected with
his disappearance. And as he was planning what to do, he perceived on
the summit of a great height, a man, half-naked, jumping with
remarkable swiftness and agility from rock to rock.

Don Quixote saw no way of getting there, so he stood for some time
pondering what to do. Then he saw above him on the mountainside a
flock of goats, tended by an elderly goatherd. Calling to him, the
knight asked him to come down, and the old man descended, amazed at
seeing human beings there. Don Quixote immediately began to ask about
the strange half-naked man he had seen, and the goatherd told what he
knew of him and the mystery of the knapsack.

The stranger, he said, was a youth of good looks and no doubt of high
birth, who had lost his wits because of the faithlessness of a friend.
His behavior was such that they had never seen the like of it. In fits
of madness he would approach people, snatch away food offered him out
of their hands, and then run away with the speed of a deer. Then
again he would come begging for food, the tears flowing down his

Now, while they were standing there discussing the young man, chance
would have it that he came along, and greeted them courteously. Don
Quixote returned his greeting with grand gestures, descended from
Rocinante's tired back, and advanced to the youth with open arms. He
held him in his embrace for some time, as if he had known him forever.
Finally the youth tore away and, placing his hands on the shoulders of
the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, the youth, who might be called
the Ragged One of the Sorry Countenance, looked into his eyes and
spoke to him.



The Ragged One thanked Don Quixote for being so kind and courteous;
and Don Quixote replied that his duty to the world consisted in giving
succor to those in despair and need. He implored the youth to tell him
the name of the one who had caused his misfortune, that he might
revenge him. The Ragged One stared at him strangely and said: "If you
will give me to eat, I will tell you my story."

Sancho and the goatherd gave the youth something to appease his
hunger; and he ate it ravenously. When he had finished, he motioned
to them to follow him, and they came to a spot where green grass grew
and all stretched themselves on the ground in silence. Before he began
his story, the youth warned them not to interrupt him, for then it
would come to an end. Don Quixote promised solemnly for all of them.

The youth told of his love for one Luscinda, and how his best friend,
Don Fernando, son of a grandee of Spain, had stolen her love away from
him; but suddenly he was interrupted by Don Quixote, and refused to
continue. Whereupon Don Quixote nearly lost his senses--for his
curiosity was aroused beyond words--and called the Ragged One a

The Ragged One broke into a violent fit when he heard himself called
names and picked up a stone which he hurled against the knight
errant's breast with such force that it placed him flat on his back.
Seeing this, Sancho Panza flew at the madman; but the youth seemed to
possess supernatural strength, for he felled Sancho to the ground with
one single blow, and then jumped on his chest and buckled his ribs.
Having also beaten the old goatherd, he went into the woods again.

When Sancho had seen the last of him, he turned loose his rage on the
poor old goatherd, whom he cursed for not having warned them that the
youth might be taken with fits. Words led to blows; the two grabbed
each other by their beards, and had it not been for Don Quixote, their
fray might have had a sad ending. He calmed his squire by absolving
the old man of all blame. Then he asked him--for he was still aching
with curiosity to learn the end of the story--whether he knew where
he might find Cardenio (that being the youth's name). The goatherd
answered that if he remained in the neighborhood long enough he could
not help meeting him; but as to his mood, he could not answer for



Don Quixote and Sancho Panza now made their way into unknown regions
of the mountains, Sancho trailing behind his master, on foot, silent,
and in bad humor. Finally he requested his master's permission to say
what was in his heart, and Don Quixote removed the ban under which his
squire was suffering. Sancho asked for the knight's blessing and
begged leave to return to his wife and home; but his master could not
make up his mind until he hit upon a great inspiration, the carrying
out of which made necessary his using Sancho as a messenger to his
incomparable Dulcinea.

Don Quixote, in short, had decided to go mad, in emulation of other
bold knights, such as Roland and Amadis--a decision that extracted
from Sancho Panza some muttered words to the effect that any one who
could mistake a barber's basin for a gold helmet could not go much
madder. And then Don Quixote explained to what sufferings, sorrow,
penance, and folly he would subject himself; and quite unintentionally
he revealed to Sancho the real identity of his famous Lady Dulcinea,
whom Sancho had always thought a princess. Now the good squire learned
to his dismay that the famous Dulcinea was no other than Lorenzo
Corchuelo's daughter, Aldonza Lorenzo, a lady with manners like a man,
and a man's ability to handle a crowbar easily.

When Don Quixote had determined upon his penance in the wilderness, all
for the sake of Dulcinea, he thought it would be a good idea to make
known to her the sacrifices and sufferings he was about to undergo for
her sake. Therefore he granted his squire the requested permission to
return to his family, and bade him speed homeward on Rocinante, so that
he himself, horseless, might undergo an even greater penance. He sent a
letter by Sancho to his fair one, relating to her the pain of his wounded
heart; a pain enhanced by self-inflicted absence and to be ended only by
death, to satisfy her cruelty.

Sancho's covetousness did not permit his master to forget the three
promised ass-colts; so Don Quixote wrote an order to his niece in the
notebook of the ill-starred Cardenio.

Before they parted, Don Quixote asked Sancho to stay and see some of
the insanities he meant to perform in his absence. He then stripped to
the skin and went through some remarkable capers before his squire.
This exhibition nearly brought tears to Sancho's eyes, and he besought
him to stop. And when he expressed a fear that he would not be able to
find his way back, Don Quixote assured him that he would remain in
that very spot, or thereabouts, until the squire returned from El
Toboso; and he told him also to cut some branches and strew them in
his path. Furthermore he said he would be on the lookout for him from
the peak of the highest cliff.

When Sancho finally took leave of his master, he felt that he could
swear with unprotesting conscience that his beloved master was quite



Soon after Sancho had gone, Don Quixote came to the conclusion that
the exercises he was putting himself through were much too hard and
troublesome. So he decided to change them, and instead of imitating
Roland and his fury, he turned to the more melancholy Amadis, whose
madness was of a much milder form and needed a less strenuous outlet.
But to imitate Amadis, he had to have a rosary, and he had none. For a
moment he was in a quandary; but a miracle gave him the inspiration to
use the tail of his shirt--which was too long anyhow--and tearing off
a long piece, on which he made eleven knots, he repeated quantities of
credos and ave-marias on it, there in the wilderness. His love would
at times drive him to write verses to his cruel and beloved one on the
bark of the trees, all the while he would make moaning sounds of
lovesickness. Again he would go about sighing, singing, calling to the
nymphs and fauns and satyrs, and, of course, looking for herbs to
nourish himself with.

But while Don Quixote exiled himself in the wilds, his servant Sancho
Panza was making for El Toboso. On the second day he found himself at
the inn at which the incident of his blanket journey had taken place.
The smell of food reminded him that it was dinner time; yet he
hesitated about entering. As he was standing there, along came two
men; and one of them was heard to say: "Is not that Sancho Panza?" "So
it is," said the other one; and it turned out to be the curate and the
barber of Don Quixote's own village.

At once they approached him. They asked him about his master, but it
was not until they had threatened to believe that he had robbed and
murdered Don Quixote--for was he not mounted on Rocinante?--that he
divulged the secret of his master's hiding-place. He told them of
everything; even about his master's strange and unbounded love for the
daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo and the letter he had written to her.
When the curate asked to see it, Sancho could not find it; and then he
suddenly remembered that Don Quixote had given him neither the letter
nor the order for the ass-colts. He turned pale and green, and beat
his chest frantically, but it produced no miracle. The curate and the
barber told him that the only thing to do was to find Don Quixote and
get him to write them anew; and the thought of losing the ass-colts
made Sancho only too anxious to return.

When the squire had been comforted somewhat, he tried to recite Don
Quixote's epistle of love; and his recital amused the two friends to
such a degree that he had to repeat it thrice, each time adding new
absurdities. Finally they invited him to come into the inn and eat,
while they talked over the journey to their friend's wilderness
paradise of penitence. Sancho was quick to refuse; but he gave no
reason for so doing. He said he preferred to eat outside and asked
that they bring him the food, and also some barley for Rocinante.

While the barber was serving Sancho and Rocinante, the curate was
developing a plan of strategy which was unanimously adopted by all
concerned. It was arranged that the curate should invade the region of
knightly penitence, dressed as an innocent-looking maiden with a
masked countenance; while his friend the barber should appear on the
scene behaving like a squire. The bogus maiden should be in great
distress and ask for protection, when Don Quixote, valiant knight that
he was, would be sure to give it. She would then beg him to shield her
on her journey, and, as a favor, to ask her no questions regarding her
identity, until she was safely at home. Once they had him there, they
would try to find a cure for his strange madness.



The curate proceeded to borrow the needed dress from the landlady, whose
curiosity he satisfied by explaining Don Quixote's madness and their
mission in the mountains. The landlady recognized Don Quixote by the
description the curate gave, and willingly furnished the clothes, and an
ox-tail out of which the barber made himself a beard. As security for
these things the curate left behind a brand-new cassock.

When the curate's transfiguration was completed, however, his conscience
began to trouble him; so it was agreed that he and the barber were to
change rôles. The curate shed his female attire, and the barber decided
not to don it until they approached the mountainside. Meanwhile Sancho
was instructed as to how to act and what to say, when he saw his master.

The day after they set out, they came to the place where Sancho's
branches were strewn. The curate thought it best that they send Sancho
ahead to take to his master Lady Dulcinea's reply; this was agreed to,
and Sancho left.

While the two conspirators were resting in the shade of some trees
they were suddenly startled by hearing a man singing in the distance.
It was clearly a voice trained in the art of singing, and the verses
he sang were not of rustic origin. Soon they perceived the singer, and
it was no other than Cardenio, the Ragged One. Now he was untouched by
madness, for he spoke quite sanely, telling them of his woeful
misfortune, the memory of which, he said, would sometimes overpower
and strangle his senses. The curate and the barber were both eager to
know the story of the comely youth's life, and he then told them of
the faithlessness of his friend. This time he was not interrupted, and
he finished his story, which was one of a great love as much as one of
misfortune. He had just reached the end, when from no great distance
came the sound of a lamenting voice.



When Cardenio and the curate and the barber looked about they
discovered a youth with exquisite, delicate features bathing his feet
in the brook below them. His garb was that of a peasant lad; on his
head he had a _montera_. Having finished bathing, he took from under
the _montera_ a cloth with which he dried his feet. In removing the
cap there fell from under it a mass of auburn hair, and all were
amazed to find that instead of a youth, it was a most lovely maiden.
In their astonishment either the curate or the barber uttered a cry;
and frightened at the sight of them, the girl took to flight, but soon
stumbled and fell.

The curate was the first one to reach her. He spoke some kind words
and told her that they were there to help her, to fulfill any wish she
might express. And he begged her to cast away any pretence, for he was
certain that she was there because of some misery that had befallen

At first the maiden seemed bewildered, but after a while she showed
that the curate had gained her confidence, and she spoke to him in a
beautiful, melancholy voice. She seated herself on a stone, while the
three gathered around her, and confided to them with tears in her eyes
the reasons for her being there. She told them of a certain grandee of
Spain, living in Andalusia, of whom her father, lowly in birth but
rich in fortune, was a vassal. This grandee had two sons. She had been
betrothed to the younger one of these, Don Fernando, and he had jilted
her in favor of a lady of noble birth, whose name was Luscinda.

When Cardenio heard his own lady's name, he bit his lips and tears
came to his eyes. Dorothea--for that was the maiden's name--wondered
at such interest and such emotion, but she continued her story. She
told of how, upon Don Fernando's marriage to lady Luscinda, she had
fled in despair from house and home. A herdsman in the heart of the
Sierra had given her employment as a servant; but when he had
discovered that she was a woman, she was forced to leave. While she
was bemoaning her evil fate, and praying to God in the woods, she had
cut her feet on the stones; and she was bathing them in the brook when
she encountered the present gathering.



Dorothea had told her story with great simplicity. When she had ended
it, the curate arose to console her; but Cardenio was already at her

"Are you not the daughter of the rich Clenardo?" he asked of her

She gazed at him in wonder, for she had not spoken her father's name.
She asked the youth who he might be, and he told her that he was the
Cardenio who had been wronged by Don Fernando, the faithless friend
and faithless lover; and he swore then and there a holy oath that he
should see her married to Don Fernando or the latter would perish by
his, Cardenio's, sword. Dorothea was moved to tears by the youth's
words and thanked him profusely. The curate then made the suggestion
that both of them return with him and the barber to their village
where they could make further plans as to what to do to set things
aright. And Dorothea and Cardenio accepted this kind offer gratefully.

Sancho was now seen arriving, and the curate told the youth and the
maiden the reason for his being there. He explained to them the
curious nature of Don Quixote's madness, and Cardenio mentioned to the
curate his meeting with the knight.

Sancho had found Don Quixote nearly dead with hunger, crying aloud for
his Dulcinea; and when his squire entreated him in her name to return
to El Toboso, he refused, declaring that his penitence was not yet
complete; that he was not yet worthy of her favor. Sancho was quite
worried lest he should lose his island and his titles and all the
other honors he had expected, and the curate did his best to calm his
fears. The good man then explained to Cardenio and Dorothea how they
had planned to take Don Quixote back to his home by persuading him to
go there on an adventure in aid of a distressed damsel.

Dorothea at once offered to play the part of the damsel. Having read a
good many books of chivalry, herself, she thought she could qualify in
asking favors of our knight. She had brought with her a complete
woman's dress, with lace and rich embroidery, and when Sancho Panza
saw her in her new array, he asked, in astonishment, what great lady
she might be. The curate replied that she was the ruler of the great
kingdom of Micomicon, and after having been dethroned by an evil giant
had come all the way from Guinea to seek the aid of Don Quixote.
Immediately Sancho's hope for his titles and possessions was revived,
for the thought of his master's fame having spread to such distant
parts seemed most encouraging.

While Sancho Panza was entertaining these visions, Dorothea mounted
the curate's mule, and the barber decorated himself with the ox-tail
for a beard. Sancho was told to lead the way, and the curate explained
to him that the success of their mission depended on him. He was
warned that he must not give away the identity of the curate and the
barber; if he did, the empire would be lost. And then they started
out, leaving the curate and Cardenio behind, as that was thought best.

They had gone almost a league when they saw Don Quixote on a rock,
clothed, but wearing no armor. Dorothea was helped from her horse. She
walked over to Don Quixote and knelt before him; and she told him the
errand that had brought her there, saying that she would not rise
until he had granted her the boon she was asking. While she was
kneeling before him, Sancho Panza was anxiously whispering to Don
Quixote bits of information about her and her kingdom, afraid that his
master might refuse her; but, demented though he was, rank and riches
mattered little to Don Quixote, for he drew his sword, he said, in
defense of anything that was righteous, and the meek and downtrodden
always found in him a ready and courteous defendant. When he learned
from the Princess that a big giant had invaded her kingdom, he at once
granted her the promise of his services. Dorothea wanted to kiss his
hand as a proof of her gratitude; but Don Quixote would not permit her
to do this, being ever a respectful and courteous knight. He commanded
his squire to saddle his horse immediately, while he put on his armor,
mounted, and was ready for the crusade.

They set out, Sancho on foot, cheerfully grinning to himself at the
covetous thought of all the possessions that would be his in a short
time. Soon they passed the place where Cardenio and the curate were
hiding. The curate had by this time conceived the idea of shearing
Cardenio of his beard that Don Quixote would be unable to recognize
him; and he had furnished him with his own grey jerkin and a black
cloak, so that he himself appeared in breeches and doublet only.
Having effected the change, they took a short-cut through the woods
and came out on the open road ahead of Don Quixote.

As he approached them, the curate feigned astonishment beyond words at
seeing his old friend; and Don Quixote was so surprised that he hardly
recognized the curate. He courteously offered Rocinante to him, but
the curate remonstrated and finally accepted the long-bearded squire's
mule, inviting the squire to sit behind him. This arrangement did not
please the mule, however, for he commenced to kick with his hind legs.
Luckily the beast did not damage the barber, but the demonstration
frightened him so that he turned a somersault in a ditch. In so doing,
his beard came off, but he had enough presence of mind to cover his
face at the same moment, crying that his teeth were knocked out. When
Don Quixote saw the beard on the ground without any sign of flesh or
blood, he was struck with amazement, and thought that the barber had
been shaved by a miracle.

The curate hastened breathlessly to the barber's side, and began to
mumble incomprehensible words, while the barber was groaning on the
ground in an uncomfortable position. When the barber finally rose, Don
Quixote's eyes nearly fell out of their sockets, for he beheld the
barber bearded again. He begged the curate to teach him the charm that
could produce such a miracle, and the curate promised he would. Then
they proceeded on the journey.

The curate now began to wonder about the road (all this was pre-arranged)
and said that in order to go to the kingdom of Micomicon, they had to
take the road to Cartagena, where they would embark on a ship. That, he
said, would take them through his own village, and from there it was a
journey of nine years to Micomicon. Here the Princess corrected him,
saying that it had taken her only two years to make the journey here,
in quest of the noble and famous knight who had now sworn to restore
her kingdom to her.

Don Quixote at this moment happened to observe the light attire of the
curate, and was curious to know the reason for it. Whereupon the
curate (having learned of the incident through Sancho) related how he
and Master Nicholas, on their way to Seville, had been held up by a
gang of liberated galley-slaves. These criminals, it was said, had
been set free by a man on horseback, as brave as he was bold, for he
had fought off all the guards, single-handed. The curate criticized
this man heartlessly, called him a knave and a criminal for having set
himself against law and order and his king, and expressed a belief
that he could not have been in his right mind. The Holy Brotherhood,
he said further, was searching for him now, and he himself was afraid
that the man's soul would be lost. He finished his story by calling
upon the Lord to pardon this unregenerate being who had taken away the
galley-slaves from the punishment that had been meted out to them by

Don Quixote seemed to take the curate's sermon to heart, and bent his
head humbly, not daring to admit that he was the culprit, and not
knowing that the curate knew it.



When Sancho heard the harsh sermon of the curate, he, being a good
Christian, became afraid that his own soul might be lost too; for was
he not an accomplice? So he confessed then and there his own and his
master's guilt, much to the shame and anger of Don Quixote. The
Princess was quick to sense the danger, and she calmed our hero before
his anger had risen to any great height, by reminding him of his
promise, and how he had sworn to engage in no conflict of any kind
until her kingdom had been saved. He answered her with infinite
courtesy and expressed his regrets for having let his anger get the
better of him; he would stand by his word. Then he asked her to tell
him all that she could about herself and her kingdom. She would
willingly do that, she said, and began her story.

But she came very near ending it then and there, for she could not
remember the name she had assumed. Luckily the curate--who had
invented her long and difficult name--was there to prompt her, and the
situation was saved. Having told Don Quixote that her name was
Princess Micomicona, she continued her story, relating how she was
left an orphan, how a certain giant and lord of an island near her
kingdom had asked for her hand in marriage and she had refused, how
his forces had overrun her country and she had fled to Spain, where it
had been predicted by a magician she would find a certain great knight
errant by the name of Don Quixote, otherwise called the Knight of the
Rueful Countenance, who would be recognized by a gray mole with hairs
like bristles under the left shoulder.

Immediately upon hearing this, Don Quixote wanted to strip, but Sancho
assured them that he did have just such a mark. Dorothea said she was
quite sure he must, for in other respects the description that the
magician had given fitted him; and she hastened to relate to him how
she had first heard of him on her landing at Osuna. But evidently the
pretended Princess had not been as careful a student of geography as
Don Quixote, who was quick to ask her: "But how did you land at Osuna,
señorita, when it is not a seaport?" Again the curate displayed proof
of rare presence of mind, for he broke in: "The Princess meant to say
that after having landed at Malaga, the first place where she heard of
your worship was Osuna." And Dorothea immediately corroborated the
curate's explanation with great self-assurance.

However, she thought it best to end her story here, for fear of
complications, and only added how happy she was to have found him so
soon. She also pointed out, demurely enough, that it had been
predicted if after having cut off the giant's head the knight should
ask her to marry him, she would accept. But Don Quixote said he would
be true to his Dulcinea; and this made Sancho exclaim with dismay
that he was out of his head, for Dulcinea could never come up to this
fair princess.

Sancho's remark angered his master so intensely that he knocked him to
the ground with his spear; and if the Princess had not interfered the
unfortunate squire might never again have been able to say his
ave-marias or credos or, more to the point, have eaten another square
meal. He was quick to cry out that he had meant no ill by what he
said, and acting upon the suggestion of the Princess, he kissed his
master's hand.

At this moment a man, mounted on an ass, was seen on the road, and
Sancho, no doubt feeling instinctively the proximity of his beloved
animal, recognized in the man Gines de Pasamonte. Wildly shouting, he
set out after the galley-slave, who threw himself off the ass at
Sancho's first shout. Sancho, crying with joy, was so glad to have his
faithful donkey returned to him that he did not pursue the thief. And
Don Quixote himself was so pleased that he entirely forgot about his
quarrel with Sancho. He called him to his side, and asked him to
repeat everything his Dulcinea had told him, over and over again.



Don Quixote was anxious to know what jewel his fair one had bestowed
on Sancho before the leave-taking. Sancho replied that the only jewel
Dulcinea had given him was some bread and cheese; whereupon Don
Quixote remarked that no doubt she had had no jewels at hand. He
expressed wonder at the speedy trip Sancho had made, to which Sancho
replied that Rocinante had gone like lightning; and Don Quixote then
was sure some friendly enchanter had carried him through the air.



The following day they reached the inn. The landlady at once wanted
her ox-tail back, so it was decided that the barber should hereafter
appear in his own true character, having supposedly arrived at the inn
after the galley-slaves' hold-up.

Don Quixote was tired, and was given a bed in the garret where he had
slept once before. While the others were having dinner, the landlady
was confidentially telling all who would listen of Don Quixote's
absurdities during his previous visit, and also of Sancho Panza's
being juggled in the blanket. And while the curate was discussing Don
Quixote's madness, the innkeeper confided to him that he himself had a
weakness for reading about deeds of the past, particularly stories of
chivalry. Often, he said, he would read aloud from these books to his
family and servants. He had just read a novel entitled "Ill-Advised
Curiosity," which he had found very interesting. He showed the
manuscript of it to the curate, who seemed to think it might make very
good reading and expressed a desire to copy it. Whereupon the
innkeeper asked him whether he would not read it aloud to them; and as
they were all eager to hear it, the curate commenced the reading of
the manuscript.



The curate had almost finished the reading of the novel, (which
consumed all of the two chapters which are omitted here) when Sancho
Panza burst into the room, excitedly shouting that his master was
having the wildest battle he had ever seen, up in the garret. He
pleaded for reinforcements, and wanted them all to join in conquering
the enemy who, he declared, was no other than the fierce giant that
had invaded the kingdom of Micomicon. He said he had left just as his
master had cut the giant's head clean off with his sword, leaving the
beast to bleed like a stuffed pig.

While Sancho was relating his blood-curdling story, a tremendous noise
and loud exclamations poured forth from the garret, and the innkeeper,
suddenly remembering all the many wine-skins he had hung up there on
the previous night sprang out of his chair and toward the scene of
action, followed by the rest.

The worst that the innkeeper might have feared was true; for there, on
the garret floor, was a sea of red wine, with hosts of empty skins
floating about upon it. In the middle of the sea stood Don Quixote,
sword in hand, slashing right and left, dressed in nothing but his
shirt. But the strangest thing of all was not his attire, but the fact
that he was fast asleep, his eyes shut tightly, dreaming that he had
already arrived in the distant realm of the Princess Micomicona and
had encountered the giant enemy.

Seeing all his precious wine floating away, the innkeeper became
enraged and set upon Don Quixote with his bare fists; but the beating
had no effect on the knight except, perhaps, that it made him sleep
more soundly. It was not until the barber had drenched him in cold
water that he came to his senses.

The Princess Micomicona, who had been listening to the saving of her
kingdom outside the door, became eager, after she had heard the
tempest subside, to enter and see the conquered giant; but she retired
hastily and with a slight exclamation of horrified modesty on seeing
the abbreviated length of her defender's night-shirt, the tail of
which had been sacrificed to his prayers in the wilderness.

The landlord, cursing his luck, swore that this time the knight errant
and his squire should not escape without paying. But Don Quixote,
whose hand the curate was holding in an endeavor to calm him, merely
fell on his knees before the curate, exclaiming: "Exalted and
beautiful Princess! Your Highness may now live in peace; for I have
slain the giant!" He imagined that he was at the feet of Micomicona.
Soon after having spoken thus, he showed signs of great weariness, and
the curate, the barber and Cardenio carried him to his bed, where he
fell asleep.

Next they had to console Sancho, who was grief-stricken because he had
been unable to find the giant's head. He swore he had seen it falling
when his master cut it off, and imagined that if it could not be
produced there would be no reward for either him or his master; but
Dorothea, in her rôle of Princess, calmed and comforted him.

All this time the innkeeper's wife was crying about the ox-tail, which,
she said, had lost its usefulness after having served as beard, and the
innkeeper was demanding that he be paid for the spilt wine and other
losses. The curate assured them that he himself would see to it that they
were reimbursed for everything; and when the excitement in the inn had
simmered down, and everybody had gathered again in the room where they
had heard the curate read from "Ill-Advised Curiosity," he was asked to
resume the reading. This he did; and they all thought it a very
entertaining story and listened intensely to what the curate was reading.




At this moment there was a sound of people approaching on horseback,
and the innkeeper rushed to the gate to receive the guests. There were
four men, with lances and bucklers, and black veils for their faces; a
woman, dressed in white and also veiled, and two attendants on foot.
One of the four, a gentleman of distinction, helped the lady to
dismount, and they entered the inn.

As they came into the room where the curate had just finished reading
the novel of "Ill-Advised Curiosity," Dorothea covered her face, and
Cardenio left and went to the garret. As the gentleman seated the lady
in a chair, she heaved a deep sigh. Her arms fell limply by her side.
The curate was curious to know who these people were, so he asked one
of the servants that accompanied them. But none of them knew, for they
had met the travelers on the road, they said, and had been offered
employment at good pay. They added that they feared the lady was being
taken somewhere against her will, as she had done nothing but sigh all
through the journey, and had exchanged no words whatever with her

Dorothea, hearing the lady sigh repeatedly, felt compassion for her,
and asked her whether there was anything that she could do for her.
But although she asked her the question several times, she got no

When the gentleman with the distinguished bearing observed that
Dorothea was interested in this lady, he told her it was useless to
bother with her, for her answers were all lies and anything done for
her would be rewarded with ingratitude. This remark was speedily
answered by the lady, who retorted. "I have never told a lie. On the
contrary, it is because I am truthful and cannot lie that I am now in
this miserable condition. And you are the lying one!"

Cardenio was in the adjoining room, just returning from the garret,
and when he heard these words he exclaimed: "Good God! What is this I
hear! It is her voice!"

The lady heard the exclamation, and seeing no one, she became agitated
and rose, but was held back by the gentleman. Her veil suddenly fell
off, and every one could see her face, which was one of alabaster-like
whiteness and great beauty. And while the gentleman was struggling to
keep her from leaving the room, his own veil became unfastened and
Dorothea saw that he was no other than her own lover, Don Fernando.
The moment she recognized him she fainted, and the barber caught her,
or she would have fallen to the floor. The curate was quick to throw
some water on her face, and she soon came to. As soon as Cardenio
heard the commotion, he rushed in from the other room, imagining that
the worst had happened to his Luscinda--for it was no other than
she--and it was a curious thing to see the four suddenly finding
themselves face to face.

Luscinda was the first one to speak, and she implored Don Fernando to
take her life, so that her beloved Cardenio might believe that she
had been true and loyal and faithful to him until the very last.

When Dorothea heard Luscinda speak thus, she fell on her knees before
Don Fernando and implored him to reconsider everything that he had
done that was base and wrong and sinful. She pleaded with tears in her
eyes, begging him to give up Luscinda to her faithful Cardenio, told
him how much she still loved him in spite of his wrong-doing, and said
she would forgive him everything if he would only let his real and
better nature come into its own. And her tears and sincerity moved Don
Fernando so that he himself wept, and he promised to abide by the
ending which Fate itself seemed to have provided for by bringing them
all together in this strange way.

He told Luscinda that when he had found the paper in which she
declared she could never be the wife of any other man than Cardenio,
he was tempted to kill her, but was prevented by chance. He had left
the house in a rage, and had not returned home till the following day,
when he found that she had disappeared. Some months later he learned
that she had taken refuge in a convent. He gathered the companions
they had seen at the inn, and with their help he carried her from the
convent. Now he repented of what he had done, prayed he might be
permitted forever to live with his Dorothea, and asked them all for
forgiveness. Then he gave his blessing to the overjoyed Cardenio and
Luscinda, who were both so affected at their reunion that they shed
tears. Even Sancho was weeping, although for quite another reason. He
was grieved to find his Princess Micomicona suddenly lose her royal
identity and turn out to be a mere lady.



Sancho thought it his solemn duty to go to his master at once and
inform him of the catastrophe. Dejected, he approached Don Quixote,
who had just awakened, and said: "Sir Rueful Countenance, your Worship
may as well sleep on, without troubling yourself about killing or
restoring her kingdom to the Princess; for that is all over and
settled now."

Don Quixote agreed with his squire enthusiastically, and then told him
of the tremendous battle he had just had with the giant, dwelling
particularly upon the great amount of blood that flowed when the
giant's head was cut off.

"Red wine, your Worship means," said Sancho, "and no less than
twenty-four gallons, all of which has to be paid for! The Princess
your Worship will find turned into a private lady named Dorothea; and
there is much more that will astonish your Worship."

Whereupon there ensued a rich and varied conversation between master
and servant. When Don Quixote heard his squire confound blood with
wine, he called him a fool. And when he heard that his Princess had
turned into a simple Dorothea, the fears he had entertained during
his past visit to the inn, began to return, and he decided that the
place was enchanted. But of that his squire could not be convinced,
for the episode of the blanketing still remained a most vivid reality
to him. Had it not been for that, he repeated, he could have believed
it readily.

Meanwhile the curate had been telling Don Fernando and the others of
Don Quixote's strange malady; he described how they had succeeded in
taking him away from the wilderness and his self-inflicted penance,
and told them all the strange adventures he had heard Sancho relate.
They were greatly amused and thought it the most remarkable craze they
had ever heard of. Don Fernando was eager that Dorothea should
continue playing her part, and they all decided to come along on the
journey to the village in La Mancha.

At this moment Don Quixote entered in his regalia, the barber's basin
on his head, spear in hand, and with the buckler on his arm. Don
Fernando was struck with astonishment and laughter at the sight of the
mixed armament and the peculiar long yellow face of the knight. After
a silence, Don Quixote turned to Dorothea and repeated his vow to
regain her kingdom for her. He said he approved heartily of the magic
interference of the spirit of the king, her father, who had devised
this new state of hers, that of a private maiden, in which guise she
would no doubt be more secure from evil influence on her journey to
her home.

His ignorant squire broke in when his master related of his battle in
the garret, and inferred irreverently and rather loudly that he had
attacked wine-skins instead of giants, but Don Fernando quickly made
him be quiet. Dorothea rose and thanked our rueful knight at the end
of his speech for the renewed offer of his sword.

Having listened to her lovely voice, Don Quixote turned angrily to his
squire and reprimanded him for being a disbeliever, saying that he
could now judge for himself what a fool he had made of himself. Sancho
replied that he hoped he had made a mistake about the Princess not
being a princess, but that as to the wine-skins, there could be no
doubt, for the punctured skins he had seen himself at the head of Don
Quixote's bed--and had not the garret floor been turned into a lake of
wine? Whereupon his master swore at his stupidity, until Don Fernando
interrupted and proposed that they spend the evening in pleasant
conversation at the inn instead of continuing their journey that

While that was being agreed upon, two travelers, a man and a woman,
dressed in Moorish fashion, came to the inn. They asked for rooms
overnight, but were told there were none to be had. Dorothea felt
sorry for the strange lady--whose face was covered with a veil--and
told her that she and Luscinda would gladly share their room with her.
The lady rose from her chair, bowed her head and made a sign with her
hands as if to thank them; and they concluded, because of her silence,
that she could not speak their language. At this moment her companion
returned to her and, seeing her surrounded by the guests at the inn,
he confirmed what they had thought, for he made the remark that it was
useless to address any questions to her as she could speak no other
tongue than her own. They explained that they had asked no questions,
but had only offered her quarters for the night. When the stranger
learned this, it seemed to please him very much, and he thanked them

As they were all curious to know who the lady was, they asked the
stranger whether or not she was a Christian. He replied that while she
was not, she wished to become one; and he informed them that she was a
lady of high rank from Algiers. This excited a desire to see her face
as well as to know whom she might be, and Dorothea could not resist
the temptation of asking her to remove her veil. When her companion
had told her Dorothea's desire, and the Moorish lady had removed her
veil, they all stood in awe, for they beheld a face that seemed to
them lovelier than any they had ever beheld before. Don Fernando asked
her name, and the stranger replied it was Lela Zoraida; but when the
fair lady heard him speak this name, she exclaimed emphatically that
she was called Maria and not Zoraida. Luscinda embraced her in a
loving way and said they would call her by that name.

The supper was now ready and all placed themselves at a long table, at
the head of which Don Quixote was asked to seat himself. At his
request Dorothea--as the Princess Micomicona in disguise--sat on his
right. All were merry and content and many pleasantries were passed.
But suddenly Don Quixote stopped eating, rose, and with inspiration in
his eyes and voice, began a long discourse on knight-errantry,
reviewing the great good it had done for mankind. The language he used
was so perfect, his manners so free and easy, and his delivery
possessed of such charm, that his listeners could hardly make
themselves believe they were in the presence of one who was demented.



Don Quixote told them in his discourse of that age in which victory in
battle depended on personal courage and good swordsmanship, before the
use of such devilish contrivances as lead and powder. These things
almost made him despair of success for his revival of chivalry in this
age, he said; for while guns and artillery could instill no fear in
his breast, they did make him feel uneasy, as one never knew when a
bullet, intended for some one else, might cut off one's life. The very
worst of such a death, he maintained, was that the bullet might have
been discharged by a fleeing coward. And so he pledged himself again,
in spite of all the things he had to struggle against, not to give up
what he had undertaken to do: to set the world aright in accordance
with the principles of knight-errantry.

All the while that Don Quixote was discoursing, Sancho was much
concerned because he neglected his food. He broke in whenever he had
an opportunity, and admonished his master that he would have much time
for talking after he had eaten.

When they had finished their supper, the landlord informed them that
he had re-arranged their quarters in order to accommodate all, and
that the three women might sleep in the garret, as Don Quixote
gallantly had given up his quarters to them. Their interest then
turned again to the stranger. Don Fernando asked him some questions
about his life, and he replied that while his life-story would be
interesting, it might not afford them much enjoyment. However, he
said, he would tell it if they so wished. The curate begged that he do
so; and, seeing the interest of all, the stranger mentioned by way of
introduction that while his was a true story, many a story of fiction
would seem tame and less strange in comparison. And while all of the
company expectantly turned their eyes toward the strange traveler in
Moorish garb, he began the following tale.



As a young man, the stranger said, he had left Spain, bent on adventure
and on becoming a soldier. He had served with the Duke of Alva in
Flanders, and in the wars of the Christians against the Turks, the Moors,
and the Arabs. In one of these wars he was taken prisoner by King El
Uchali of Algiers; he had previously advanced to the rank of captain. He
was held a captive for a long time, first at Constantinople, then at
Tunis, then at Algiers. At Constantinople he encountered a good many
other Christian prisoners. Particularly he remembered one Don Pedro de
Augilar, a brave soldier and a native of Andalusia, who, he said, had
written some very excellent poetry. He especially spoke of two sonnets
which he had liked so well that he had learned them by heart. One day Don
Pedro succeeded in making his escape, but what had become of him he had
never heard.

As soon as the captive had spoken Don Pedro's name, the ladies and Don
Fernando exchanged glances and smiled, and Don Fernando could not
refrain from informing the narrator that Don Pedro was his brother.
Furthermore, he said, he was safe in Andalusia, where he was happily
married, in the best of health, and had three robust children. Then he
touched on his brother's gift for composing poetry, and said that the
very two sonnets the captive had mentioned, he himself knew by heart.
Whereupon every one asked him to recite them, and so he did with fine
feeling and intelligence. Then the captive resumed his story.

At Algiers, he said, there lived, overlooking the prison, a great
alcaide named Hadji Morato, a very rich man, who had but one child, a
daughter of great beauty. She had learned the Christian prayer from a
slave of her father's, when she was a child; the things that this
Christian woman had taught her had made her long to know more about
the religion and to become a Christian herself. This beautiful
Algerian maiden had seen the captive from her window, and she liked
him, and one day she managed to get a message to him, begging him to
escape and to take her with him. From time to time she would throw to
him gold coins wrapped in cloth, and these he would hide until finally
he had enough to buy not only himself but some other prisoners free
from their slavery.

However, in order to effect the escape of the maiden, the captive was
obliged to take into his confidence an old Algerian renegade who
turned out to be a believer in Christ. With this man the captive sent
messages to Zoraida. Now, this renegade was a sly fellow, and he
bought a small vessel with which he began to ply to and fro between
the city and some islands nearby, bringing back fruit each time, in
order to alleviate all suspicions of his having acquired the vessel
for any other purpose than trading. Finally it was decided the time
had come for the escape, and the captive had himself ransomed.

That night the renegade had the ship anchored opposite the prison and
Zoraida's garden, and, with the help of a number of Christians whom
they had gathered as rowers, and who were eager to return to Spain,
they secured the ship and put the Moorish crew in irons and chains.

Zoraida witnessed the proceedings from her window, and when she saw
her captive and the renegade return in the skiff of the vessel, she
hastened below into the garden. She was bedecked with a fortune in
pearls and precious stones. She asked the renegade to follow her into
the house, and when they returned, they brought with them a chest
laden with gold. Just then her father was awakened and he began to
shout in Arabic as loudly as he could that he was being robbed by
Christians. Had it not been for the quick action of the renegade all
might have been lost. He bound and gagged the father and carried him
downstairs, where Zoraida had fainted in the captive's arms. Then they
hastened back to the ship and set sail for Majorca.

It was some time before the old alcaide realized that his daughter had
gone with the captive of her own free will, and when he learned it, he
flung himself into the sea, but was rescued by one of the rowers. When
he found himself then on board the ship, he began to curse his
daughter, calling her a Christian dog and other vile names. Finally it
was deemed best to set him and the other Moors ashore; and when the
old man saw the ship sail away with his daughter, he began to sob and
cry aloud in the most heartrending way, threatening to kill himself if
she did not return to him. The last words that she heard were, "I
forgive you all!" and they made her weep so bitterly that it seemed as
if her tears would never cease flowing.

They were then less than a day's voyage from the coast of Spain. As
they were breezing along with all sails set, over a moonlit sea, they
saw a large ship appear in the distance. It turned out to be a French
corsair from Rochelle out for plunder, for when it came closer it
suddenly fired two guns that took terrible effect and wrecked their
vessel. As the ship began to sink, they begged to be taken aboard the
corsair, to which the captain was not averse. Once aboard they were
told that if they had been courteous enough to reply to the question
shouted from the corsair as to what port they were bound for, their
own vessel would still have been intact. The covetous crew stripped
them of all their valuable belongings, the pearls and jewels, money
and adornments of Zoraida. The chest of gold, however, the renegade
stealthily lowered into the sea without any one seeing it.

The next day when the Spanish coast was sighted the captain put them
all in a skiff, gave them some bread and water for their voyage, and
set out to sea. Before letting them depart, moved by some strange
impulse, he gave Zoraida forty crowns; and he had not robbed her of
her beautiful gown. They steered their skiff towards the shore, where
they landed soon after midnight. Immediately they left the shore,
eager to know where they were. They climbed the mountain--for the
shore was a rocky one--and there they rested until dawn, then went on
into the country.

Soon they met a young shepherd; but when he saw their strange garbs,
he ran away from them like a frightened lamb, crying that the Moors
had invaded the country. And not so long after that they encountered
fifty mounted men of the coast guard, but as soon as these saw their
Moorish costumes and had heard the captive's explanation, they
realized that the boy's vivid imagination had disturbed them
needlessly. And when one of the Christian captives recognized in one
of the guards an uncle of his, these men could not do enough for the
returned slaves. They gave them their horses, some of them went to
rescue the skiff for them, and when they arrived at the nearby city
they were welcomed by all the inhabitants.

At once they went to the church to return thanks to the Lord for their
marvelous escape, and Zoraida was impressed beyond expression with the
hosts of praying worshippers. She, the renegade, and the captive
stayed at the house of the returned Christian, and the rest were
quartered throughout the town. After six days the renegade departed
for Granada to restore himself to the Church through the means of the
Holy Inquisition. One by one the other captives left for their own
homes, and finally only Zoraida and he himself remained. He then
decided to go in search of his father, whom he had not seen for so
many years, and he did not know whether he was alive or not. His
journey had brought him to this inn, and it was here that his story
came to an end.



The captive having finished his strange and interesting story, Don
Fernando rose and thanked him, and all were eager for an opportunity
to show him their goodwill. Don Fernando begged the stranger to allow
him to provide for his comfort, and offered to take him to his
brother, the Marquis, who, he said, would be most eager to act as
Zoraida's godfather at her baptism. But the stranger declined
graciously all the offers that were made.

Night was now setting in, and each one was contemplating going to his
room, when suddenly a coach with attendants on horseback arrived at
the inn. The landlady told the one demanding lodging that there was
none to be had at any price. Whereupon the man replied that room
_must_ be found for his lordship, the Judge, his master. As soon as
the landlady learned she was dealing with the law, she nearly fainted
from exertion to please, and offered to give up their own room and bed
to his lordship. By this time the Judge, attired in a long robe with
ruffled sleeves, had stepped out of the coach, accompanied by a
beautiful girl of about sixteen years of age. There were exclamations
from all when they saw the young lady, for she possessed beauty and
grace that were really rare.

The first one to greet the strangers was no other than Don Quixote,
who, with a grave air and the most exalted and flowery language, bade
them welcome to the castle. He finished his speech by saying: "Enter,
your worship, into this paradise, for here you will find stars and
suns to accompany the heaven your Worship brings with you. Here you
will find arms in their supreme excellence, and beauty in its highest

The Judge looked for a moment as if he hesitated about entering with
his daughter after such an unusual reception; he seemed to wonder
whether he was at an inn or an asylum. He scrutinized Don Quixote's
curious armor, then turned his attention to the rest of the company,
which evidently made him feel more at ease.

It was arranged that the young lady should sleep with the other
ladies; which pleased her greatly, for it was evident that she was
very much taken with them and their beauty. The Judge was as much
pleased with the presence of so many people of quality as he was
puzzled by Don Quixote and his strange appearance and behavior.

The moment the former captive and captain had laid eyes on the Judge,
he was stirred by the conviction that here was his own younger
brother. He asked the Judge's name of one of the servants, and was
told he was called the Licentiate Juan Perez de Viedma, lately
appointed Judge of the Supreme Court of Mexico, to which country he
was now on his way. The Captain inquired whether the servant knew from
which part of Spain the Judge came, and got the reply that he had
heard it rumored he was a native of a little village in the mountains
of Leon. The Captain was then certain it was his brother, and he
hastened to tell the curate, Don Fernando, and Cardenio, saying he
felt diffident about making himself known too abruptly for fear his
brother might refuse to acknowledge him because of his poverty and

The curate understood the Captain's way of thinking, and asked that he
trust him to manage it in a discreet way. So when the Judge invited
them all to keep him company while he supped, the curate told the
story of the captive at the table. In telling it he pretended to have
been a captive in the hands of the Turks and the Algerians and a
comrade-in-arms of the Captain. When he had finished the story, tears
rolled down the Judge's cheeks, and he begged the curate to help him
to find his beloved brother, for whom their aged father was ever
praying, ever asking, hoping that he might see him once more before he
closed his eyes in death. It was then that the Captain, himself in
tears, stepped forward and, the Judge having recognized him, embraced
his brother. Then the Judge embraced Zoraida, offering her all the
worldly goods he possessed. His daughter, the lovely young girl, now
joined them, and all the others were moved to tears by the brothers'
happiness in finding each other after so many years of separation.

Don Quixote stood gazing in silence at what passed before his eyes,
ascribing the two brothers' luck to magic.

When the first emotion of the unexpected meeting had subsided, the
Judge asked his brother and Zoraida to return with him to Seville,
from where he would send a messenger to the father, telling him of the
good news and begging him to come to the joint marriage and baptismal
ceremony. As the Judge was obliged to leave for New Spain within a
month, it was agreed that a speedy return to Seville was necessary.

It was now early morning, though still dark, and all were tired, so it
was decided that every one should go to bed. But Don Quixote,
sacrificing himself in spite of his fatigue, appointed himself to keep
guard for the remainder of the night, fearing attack of some evil
giant or beast upon all the beauty that was slumbering within. They,
who were aware of his peculiar weakness, returned thanks in their most
gracious manner; and when they were alone with the Judge they hastened
to explain the knight's mental state. The Judge was much amused by the
accounts of his adventures and his attempts to revive knight errantry
in Spain.

There was only one unhappy being in the inn that night: that was
Sancho Panza. He was not at all pleased with his master's staying up
at such a late hour. But there seemed nothing he could do about it, so
he retired and spread himself comfortably on the trappings of his

While Don Quixote was guarding the castle, and dawn was approaching,
Dorothea, who had lain awake, was suddenly stirred by the sound of a
man's voice, a voice so beautiful that it seemed to her there could be
none sweeter in the world. Then Cardenio was awakened by it, and he
felt that he ought to share the joy of hearing it with the ladies, so
he went to the garret to call their attention to it. When he knocked
on the door and told them, Dorothea called out that they were already
listening. The only one not awake at that time was Doña Clara, the
Judge's fair daughter.



Dorothea and the other ladies were in a quandary as to whether to
awake Doña Clara or not. Finally they decided that she would be sorry
if she had to learn what she had missed and would regret that they had
not awakened her; so they shook her until she opened her eyes and then
asked her to sit up in bed and listen. But scarcely had she heard one
note, before she began to sob hysterically. She threw her arms around
Dorothea and cried: "Why, oh, why did you wake me, dear lady? The
greatest kindness fortune could do me now would be to close my eyes
and ears so that I could neither see nor hear that unhappy musician!"

Dorothea was at a loss to know what had happened to the child. All the
while she was trying to soothe her, the tears were streaming down the
young girl's face, and she was trembling like a leaf. Finally she
quieted her feelings sufficiently to be able to confide to Dorothea in
a whispering voice the story of her romance with the singer, who, she
said, was not a muleteer as his garb would indicate, but the only son
and heir of a rich noble of Aragon. This gentleman's house in Madrid
was situated directly opposite her father's, and having once seen Doña
Clara the youth proceeded to declare his love for her. She, being
motherless and having no one to whom she could confide her love
secrets, had to leave Madrid with her father, when he was given his
appointment to New Spain, without an opportunity to see her lover. But
as soon as the youth, who was not much older than herself, learned of
their departure, he dressed himself up as a muleteer and set out on
foot to pursue her. At every inn where they had stopped overnight she
had found him awaiting their departure in the morning, and she was
always in dread, she said, lest her father learn of their love for
each other.

With her arms tight around Dorothea, she confessed to her how great
her love was for the youth, saying that she could never live without
him. Dorothea kissed the girl, and promised her that with God's help
all would end well, telling her to put her trust in Him; and before
another day had passed she hoped to have good news for Doña Clara.
Dorothea's assurances calmed and put new faith in the young girl's
heart; and soon they all were fast asleep again.

Now, all this time the one-eyed Asturian maid, and the landlady's
daughter, both bent on deviltry, were keeping their eyes open. It was
impossible for them to forget Don Quixote, and they were determined to
play a joke on him before the night was over. They posted themselves
in the hayloft, where there was a hole in the wall; and when Don
Quixote passed on Rocinante, he heard some one calling: "Pst! Come
here, señor!"

As Don Quixote turned to see who it might be, he discovered the hole
in the wall and it seemed very much like a marvelously decorated
window, in keeping with the beautiful castle he had made out of the
inn. He beheld at this window the two maidens, and immediately they
became to him the daughter of the lord of the castle and her
attendant. Wistfully he gazed at them, certain, however, that they had
designed to destroy his faithful and stubborn allegiance to Dulcinea,
to whom he had just been sending up prayers and salutations under the
influence of the moon. Then he spoke to them, regretting that they
should let themselves be so overcome by love for him that they could
no longer master their feelings. He told them of that great and only
mistress of his soul, the incomparable one of El Toboso of La Mancha,
to whom he had sworn eternal love and undying admiration. And at last
he admonished the innkeeper's daughter to retire to her beauteous
apartment, lest he should be forced to prove himself ungrateful. If,
he said, she would demand any other thing than love, he would
willingly grant her the favor, even unto a lock of Medusa's hair.

The wench immediately realized that her opportunity had come, so she
quickly said that she cared for no lock of Medusa's or any other, but
would be satisfied to feel the touch of his hand.

Before sanctioning this demand, Don Quixote asserted his virtuousness
again by stipulating that she must not kiss it, only touch it. He
understood, of course, that any woman would be likely to ask such a
favor of him at any time (for who would not be proud to have touched
the sinewy hand of so remarkable and famous a knight errant as
himself?) but he insisted on being discreet at all times. So he
climbed up and stood on the saddle of his hack, reaching his lean arm
through the hole in the wall.

By this time the Asturian maid had procured from the stable the halter
of Sancho's donkey, on which her young mistress quickly made a running
knot and passed it over Don Quixote's wrist. As soon as she had
proceeded thus far in her deviltry, she jumped down from the hole and
made fast the other end of the halter to the bolt of the door. Then
she and her maid swiftly made off, bursting with laughter, leaving the
knight to complain of the roughness of her touch.

But after a while Don Quixote began to realize that no one was there to
listen to his complaints, and also that he was not standing too securely
on his Rocinante's back; for should Rocinante move without being urged--a
most unusual event--he would be left to hang in the air by one arm. It
suddenly came to him that he was a victim of enchantment, and he called
on all the saints, and Dulcinea, and Sancho Panza, on all kind magicians
and sages, and every one else he could think of, to come to his aid.

But no one came, until the morning brought four travelers on horseback.
They found the gate still shut, so they called to Don Quixote, who by
this time was almost exhausted. But although wearied, his spirit had not
left him. He reprimanded the strangers for their insolence; asked whether
they were so stupid they failed to realize that as yet the castle gates
were not open, that all were asleep. He commanded them to withdraw to a
distance and to approach the fortress after daylight; then he could
better tell whether they should be permitted to enter or not.

One of the travelers mistook Don Quixote for the innkeeper, and was
immediately reprimanded for this. The offended knight then began to
talk about knight errantry and its revival in the world, until finally
the men tired of his discourse. Again they knocked at the gate, this
time with such force and fury that the innkeeper woke up and came out
and admitted them in a hurry. They entered violently on their horses,
enraged because of their long waiting at the gate, and dismounted,
leaving their horses free. The moment the horses saw Rocinante and the
curious position of his master, they went to investigate him, and the
unsuspecting Rocinante leaped from under Don Quixote with such
suddenness that the poor knight's arm was nearly wrenched from his
body. There he was left to dangle, while the shouts that forced their
way from his throat rent the air fiercely.



When the landlord heard the terrible outcries of Don Quixote, he ran,
greatly excited, to see who could be giving vent to such agony. The
travelers joined him; and the Asturian maid was stirred to quick
action by a bad conscience, as well as by the excited state of her
master. She untied the halter, and Don Quixote fell so suddenly that
his meager body landed like a dead weight on the ground.

The landlord and the travelers found him there, and asked him
impatiently why he was making such a tremendous noise. He ignored
their question entirely, pulled the rope off his wrist, and mounted
his charger with as much nonchalance and elegance as his stiff limbs
would permit. Then he haughtily raised his head, after having adjusted
all his knightly paraphernalia, and circled down the field, returning
in a canter. Having halted Rocinante, he bellowed out to those
assembled "Whoever shall say that I have been enchanted with just
cause, provided my lady the Princess Micomicona grants me permission
to do so, I give him the lie, challenge him and defy him to single

The landlord saw at once the effect these words of the poor demented
knight had on his newly arrived guests, so he hastened to explain Don
Quixote's condition to them. They then asked whether the innkeeper had
seen a youth dressed like a muleteer. He replied that he had not; but
just then one of the men exclaimed that the youth must be there, since
the Judge's coach--which he had suddenly observed--was there. They
then decided to dissemble, each one going to a different entrance of
the inn, so there would be no chance for the youth to escape.

The landlord was curious to know what it was all about, but could
arrive at no conclusion. The truth was that these men were servants of
the young muleteer's father. And it was not long ere they had
discovered him, lying asleep, never thinking that he would himself be
pursued. The servant who roused him made a few caustic remarks to the
young Don Luis--for this was his name--about his bed and the luxury of
his surroundings, as particularly befitting a youth of his rank and

Don Luis could not at first believe that he was really awake. He
rubbed his eyes in astonishment, and failed to find a reply to the
servant's remarks. The man then continued, advising his young master
to return to his home at once, saying that his father, as a result of
his disappearance, was dangerously ill. The youth was curious to learn
how his father had found out what road he had taken and that he had
disguised himself as a muleteer. The servant answered that a student
to whom Don Luis had confided his love for Doña Clara, had told his
master everything, when he saw how he suffered.

Now, it chanced that another muleteer, who had been sleeping with Don
Luis, could not keep what he was hearing to himself; besides, he
deemed it best to disappear from the scene. He informed some of the
guests of what had occurred, and thus it happened that Don Fernando
and Cardenio learned of the plight of the young singer, whose voice
they had so admired a short time before; and when the muleteer told
them that his comrade was a young nobleman in disguise, they decided
to go and help him in his quandary.

They found the four men entreating Don Luis to return to his father;
and the youth emphatically refusing to do so, saying that they might
take him dead, but never alive.

At this moment Dorothea saw Cardenio from her window, and she called
him and told him the story of the lad and Doña Clara. He in turn
related to her how the servants of the youth's father had come to take
him back to his home. In telling Dorothea this news Cardenio was
overheard by Doña Clara who would have swooned had not Dorothea
supported her.

By this time the servants had brought Don Luis into the inn,
threatening to take him back by force should he not go willingly.
Again he protested, and at last the argument attracted all the guests,
including Don Quixote, who had ceased his duties as guard for the
present. The Judge was there too, and when one of the servants
recognized in him their neighbor in Madrid, he pleaded with him to do
all he could to make the young man return to his ill father.

The Judge turned to the young muleteer, and saw that it was his
neighbor's son; whereupon he embraced him and asked in a fatherly way
what had brought him there dressed in such a manner. With his arm
around the youth's neck, the Judge withdrew with the lad to discuss
the reasons for his disguise and for his leaving his father.

While the kindly Judge was thus occupied with Don Luis, a tumult suddenly
arose at the gate of the inn. It was the landlord, trying to hold back
two guests who had attempted to get away without paying. The innkeeper
was stubbornly clinging to the garb of one of the adventurers, and in
return was being pummeled mercilessly, until his face was a study in dark
and fast colors, except his nose, which was tinted a running red. As soon
as the landlady perceived her mate's distress, the thought struck her
that this would be a most worthy opportunity for our valiant knight
errant to show his skill as a swordsman and a wielder of the lance. So
she dispatched her daughter, the fair young lady of the castle, to bring
the knight her message of distress.

Don Quixote received the young lady calmly and courteously, but said
that he was in honor bound to engage in no combat except by the
express permission of her Royal Highness the Princess Micomicona; she
having granted it, there could be no doubt as to the outcome of any
battle in which he chose to draw his sword. Seeing this, in her
opinion, ill-timed hesitancy, the one-eyed Asturian muttered that by
the time the Princess was found, her master would have passed the
heavenly border. The Princess, however, was quickly summoned, and Don
Quixote knelt on his stiff knees before her; but ere he had finished
his long harangue of request, she--having been advised of the urgency
of the situation--had already given him permission and wished him

Don Quixote arose and drew his sword, paced toward the gate, and then
suddenly stopped short. All wondered what had happened to cause his
hesitating thus, and the Asturian maid expressed her wonder aloud. Don
Quixote was not long about the answer. He replied at once that this
was no business for him; they had best call his squire. It was for
Sancho, he said, that he reserved the task and joy of fighting such
lowly people as the ones he saw before him here and now.

Now, while all of this was taking place, Don Luis, with tears in his
eyes, was confessing to Doña Clara's father his great and indomitable
love for her. This placed the Judge in a curious predicament, for he
found himself forced to sit in judgment on the welfare of his own
child. He was so taken with the charm and intelligence of the youth
that he was anxious to have him for a son-in-law, particularly as his
family was one of distinction, and extremely rich. Yet his better
judgment told him that it would be wise to wait another day before
giving his consent. He would have preferred to have Don Luis' father
approve of the marriage, although he thought it almost certain that
this gentleman would like to see his son married to a titled lady.

And while the fate of the young lovers was being weighed by the Judge,
peace had been declared between the innkeeper and the two travelers
who, persuaded by the chivalrous words of Don Quixote, and the
summoning of Sancho, had been made to see the light and pay the bill.
By this time everything was settled amicably, the landlord having
demanded no special indemnity for his battered, many-colored face.

But who should loom up on the scene, now that everything was peaceful
again, but the owner of Mambrino's golden helmet! This particular
barber was now leading his donkey to the stable, when he suddenly
discovered Sancho Panza hard at work repairing the barber's own
trappings, which our Sancho had taken as booty at the time his master
fell heir to the helmet. The barber left his donkey at no slow speed
and ran towards Sancho, to whom he exclaimed threateningly "There, you
thief, I have caught you! Give me my basin and my pack-saddle, and
everything you robbed me of!"

But Sancho was not willing to give up so easily things that he had gained
as spoils in righteous warfare. He refuted with his fists, as well as by
argument, the barber's coarse suggestion that he was a common highwayman;
and his master, coming up at this instant, was proud and pleased to hear
his faithful squire talk like that, and also to see the barber's teeth
gone, which the force of Sancho's blow evidently had carried away. As a
matter of fact, Sancho's demonstration of physical strength made such a
profound impression on Don Quixote, that he decided his squire was not
far from being eligible to knighthood.

As soon as the barber was able to make himself heard again, he began
to arraign both master and squire. He was not to be subdued. He told
all that quickly gathered round them that they could assure themselves
of the truth of what he said by fitting Sancho's saddle to his own
steed; furthermore, he said, they had plundered him of a basin.

When Don Quixote heard this ridiculous accusation, his lips twisted
into a scornful smile. He dispatched Sancho to fetch the helmet--which
seemed to Sancho a dangerous move--and when Sancho returned with the
basin, Don Quixote held it up with great self-assurance before

"Your worships," said he, "may see with what face this squire can
assert that this is a basin and not the helmet I told you of; and I
swear by the order of chivalry I profess, that this helmet is the
identical one I took from him, without anything added to or removed."

This statement was corroborated in detail by Sancho, who added: "Since
that battle my master has fought in the helmet only once. That was
when he let loose the unfortunate ones in chains. And if it had not
been for this basin-helmet he might have been killed in that
engagement, for there were plenty of stones raining down on him at
that time."



The barber appealed to those present and asked them what they thought
about Don Quixote's nonsense; and it was then that it occurred to Don
Quixote's friend, the barber of his village to play a joke on his
fellow barber. He solemnly asked the other barber whether he was out
of his head, for of course anybody could see that it was a helmet,
although, he admitted, not a complete one.

The poor barber was so taken aback, so perplexed that a learned
barber, and a seemingly sane one otherwise, could not tell the
difference between a basin and a helmet that he nearly toppled over.
But when the worthy curate, Cardenio, Don Fernando, and all--for they
realized at once the barber's joke--insisted that he was wrong, and
that it was not a basin, the perspiration began to trickle down his
face, and he exclaimed: "God bless me! Is it possible that such an
honorable company can say that this is not a basin but a helmet? Why,
this is a thing that would astonish a whole university, however wise
it might be! And if this basin is a helmet, then the pack-saddle must
be a horse's caparison!"

Some one present was quick to assert that it most certainly was a
caparison and not a pack-saddle at all; that no one but a fool could
take it for a pack-saddle. And when a gentleman of quality like Don
Fernando offered to take the votes of those present and they turned
out to be in favor of the pack-saddle's remaining a caparison, the
barber thought he had gone completely mad.

By this time the group of spectators had been increased by the arrival
of the four servants of Don Luis, Don Luis himself, and three new
guests--officers of the Holy Brotherhood, to whom the proceedings and
the amusement of those present seemed utter foolishness. One of these
uninitiated newcomers, one of the officers of the Brotherhood, dared
to say that any one who maintained that it was a helmet instead of a
basin must be drunk. But he should not have said it, for our knight
lifted his lance and let it fly out of his hand with such ferocity and
such sure aim that if the officer had not been lucky enough to be able
to dodge it, it would have pierced his body.

The tumult that followed was indescribable. The landlord came to the
rescue of his Brotherhood comrades. His wife fell into hysterics for
fear he would be beheaded by Don Quixote's vicious sword. The women
were all screaming, wailing, weeping and fainting. Then this
tremendous din and noise was suddenly rent by the voice of Don
Quixote; and like a flash there was peace, when the knight errant
began to appeal in soft lucid tones for a cessation of hostilities. It
was a curious thing to observe how willingly the demented man's appeal
to reason was listened to by all. The confusion had struck most of
them with terror and they were glad to heed in such a moment even the
will of unreason.

But as soon as there was quiet again, the grudge against Don Quixote
that had established itself in the heart of one of the Brotherhood,
began to assert itself. It suddenly came to his mind that among his
warrants he had one for a man of Don Quixote's description who was
accused of having set free a chain of galley-slaves. As soon as he had
convinced himself that there could be no mistake about the identity,
he strode forth and seized Don Quixote so abruptly by the collar that
the knight nearly choked.

"Help for the Holy Brotherhood!" the officer yelled aloud. "And that
you may see that I demand it in earnest, read this warrant which says
this highwayman is to be arrested!"

Hardly did Don Quixote feel himself handled in so undignified a
manner, when he clutched the villain's throat, foaming at the mouth
like a wild beast. Luckily they were separated in time by Don Fernando
and the rest, or they would have torn each other to pieces. Yet the
officer was not willing to give up his claim on Don Quixote's person:
a claim that our knight errant laughed at, for who had ever heard of
members of the knighthood being dependent on jurisdiction? Did he,
this base knave, this ill-born scoundrel, not know that the law of
knights was in their swords, their charter in their prowess, and their
edicts in their will? And then he calmly rambled on, his speech of
denunciation culminating in this last crushing remark: "What knight
errant has there been, is there, or will there ever be in the world,
not bold enough to give, single-handed, four hundred cudgellings to
four hundred officers of the Holy Brotherhood if they come in his

While his master was thus discoursing in his usual vein, Sancho was
reviewing past events at the inn, and he could not help but make this
sad exclamation: "By the Lord, it is quite true what my master says
about the enchantments of this castle, for it is impossible to live an
hour in peace in it!"



The curate had to argue for some time with the officers of the
Brotherhood before he could finally persuade them that it would serve
no purpose to arrest Don Quixote, for, being out of his senses, he
would in the end be released as a madman. Furthermore, he warned them,
Don Quixote would never submit to force.

Sancho Panza and the barber were still quarreling over the pack-saddle
and the other booty, and at last the officers agreed to act as
mediators, and the differences were adjusted by arbitration. The
curate settled for the basin by paying eight reals, and received a
receipt for payment in full from the barber.

Don Fernando, in the meantime, extracted a promise from three of the
servants of Don Luis to return to Madrid, while the other one agreed
to remain and accompany his young master to where Don Fernando wanted
him to go. Doña Clara was sparkling with happiness; and Zoraida seemed
to feel at home with the Christians, in spite of the noise and tumult
she had had to live through during her short stay at the inn.

The landlord did not forget the reckoning for the wine-skins and all
the other things whose loss he could attribute to Don Quixote, for he
had witnessed the curate's paying off the debt for the barber's
helmet. Don Fernando paid all the innkeeper's demands generously,
after the curate had decided the claims were just.

But when Don Quixote felt no discord in the air, he betook himself to
the presence of Dorothea, knelt before her, and told her how willing
and anxious he was to serve her and conquer her giant. And he
requested that they make ready to leave. Her reply was simple and
direct, for she told him that his will was hers. So Don Quixote
ordered his squire to saddle Rocinante and his own donkey; but Sancho
only shook his head in sorry fashion.

"Master," he said, "there is more mischief in the village than one
hears of." And as his master begged him to speak freely, he burst out:
"This lady, who calls herself ruler of the great kingdom of Micomicon,
is no more so than my mother; for, if she was what she says, she would
not go rubbing noses with one that is here every instant and behind
every door."

Though it was merely with her husband, Don Fernando, that she had, as
Sancho said, rubbed noses, the crimson in her royal blood came to the
surface, and her face turned as red as a beet. Sancho, fearing that
the Princess was a courtesan, wanted to save his master the two years'
journey to Micomicon, if at the end of it it should turn out that
another one than Don Quixote or himself should reap the fruits of
their labor.

It is impossible to describe the terrible wrath of the knight when he
heard the Princess thus slandered. His indignation and fury knew no
bounds. He began to stammer and stutter, inarticulate with rage,
until Sancho was scared out of his wits, afraid of being cut open by
his raving master's sword. He was just about to turn his back on his
master and disappear till the storm had passed, when Dorothea came to
his rescue. She suggested that Sancho's strange behavior could only be
ascribed to one thing: enchantment. How else could he have seen such
diabolical things as he described, how could he have been made to bear
false witness against her, and how could he have spoken words so
offensive to her modesty? Knowing the heart of Sancho, Don Quixote at
once thought her explanation a most ingenious one, for what else could
have put into Sancho's head such disrespect for a royal personage? Don
Fernando, too, pleaded in Sancho's behalf; and Sancho meekly stumbled
to his knees before his master, and kissed his hand frantically,
begging him for forgiveness. Whereupon our knight errant with many
gestures pardoned and blessed him.

"Now, Sancho, my son," he said, "thou wilt be convinced of the truth
of what I have many a time told thee, that everything in this castle
is done by means of enchantment."

To which Sancho Panza replied meekly but firmly: "So it is, I believe,
except the affair of the blanket, which came to pass in reality by
ordinary means."

But Don Quixote as usual was not in a mood to listen to nonsense, and
he replied that if such were the case he would have avenged him, but
seeing no one to avenge himself upon, how could it have been anything
else but enchantment?

Those who were there were eager to know what had happened to Sancho, and
the landlord was most obliging in giving a graphic description of all
that had occurred. They all seemed to enjoy the account enormously, for
they laughed hilariously. Had Don Quixote not again assured Sancho that
it most certainly had happened by enchantment, there is no doubt that he
would have interrupted their hilarity.

It was now two days since they had arrived at the inn, and Don
Fernando and Dorothea were becoming anxious to depart. In order that
they might not have to go out of their way, it was arranged that they
should go by themselves; meanwhile a scheme was devised whereby the
curate and the barber could restore Don Quixote to his native village.

An ox-cart passed that day, and the curate, hearing it was going in
the direction of El Toboso, made arrangements with the owner to make
the journey with him. Then he ordered some of the servants to make a
cage, large enough to hold Don Quixote, and provided it with bars. He
then asked Don Fernando and his companions, the officers of the Holy
Brotherhood, the servants of Don Luis, and the innkeeper to cover
their faces and change their appearance so that Don Quixote would
think they were quite different people.

When this had been done they tiptoed to the valiant knight errant's
room, where they found him fast asleep, bound him, without waking him,
hand and foot; then they stood about the room silently. When the
knight awoke, he was startled to find that he could not move, and
seeing all these strangely conjured-up figures before him, it struck
him they must be phantoms of the enchanted castle. He was absolutely
helpless, and the men had no difficulty in stuffing him into the cage.
The bars were nailed on securely, and the cage was then carried out of
the inn and placed in the ox-cart.

While the procession slowly proceeded from the inn to the ox-cart, the
men supporting the cage on their shoulders, the barber chanted strange
words in a weird and hollow voice. The barber took it upon himself to
become the prophet of the occasion, and he proclaimed to the Knight of
the Rueful Countenance that he ought not to consider his present
imprisonment an affliction. It was in a way a sort of penance, he
said, through which he would be humbled to be in readiness for a still
greater, sweeter imprisonment, the bond of matrimony. This prediction
would come true, he avowed, when the fierce Manchegan lion and the
tender Tobosan dove met again. They would be joined in one, and the
offspring of this union would be of such stuff as to set the world

When Don Quixote heard these words, he was stirred into an exalted
emotion. Had he not been well bound it would have been expressed by
kneeling. He raised his eyes toward Heaven and thanked the Lord for
having sent this prophet to him in this needy moment. He prayed that
he should not be left to perish in the cage, and also implored of the
prophet not to let his faithful Sancho Panza abandon him, saying that
if by chance the promise of the island should not come true, he had
made provision for him in his will. Sancho was much moved by what his
encaged and enchanted master had said, and he bent down and kissed
his hands--he had to kiss both since they were tied together. By that
time the procession had arrived at the ox-cart, and all was ready for
the departure.



Don Quixote was greatly perplexed and, indeed, somewhat impatient with
the slow speed of the cart carrying away this enchanted knight. The
cart had rolled only a few paces and then stopped; there was nothing
exciting or heroic in being carried off in such a way! Never had he
read anywhere of so ridiculously slow and tame a proceeding. And on an
ox-cart! However, times had changed, and he realized that until he had
established the new era of knight-errantry, the most plebeian ways of
being captured by enchantment would have to serve. Yet, he did not
consider it beneath his dignity to ask Sancho what he thought on the

"I don't know what to think," answered Sancho, "not being as well read
as your Worship in errant writings; but for all that, I venture to say
and swear that these apparitions that are about us are not quite

Don Quixote could not refrain from laughing aloud at his squire's
simplicity. How could they be Catholics when they were devils, made
of no substance whatever, nothing but air?

CAGE."--_Page 131_]

"By the Lord, Master," interrupted Sancho excitedly, "I have touched
them already, and one of the devils, I swear, has firm flesh.
Furthermore, I have always heard it said that all devils smelled of
sulphur and brimstone, but this one smells of amber half a league

Here Sancho was referring to Don Fernando, who, like most nobles, used
a perfume; but Don Quixote explained to his squire that this
particular devil was so besprinkled in order to give people the
impression he was not a devil.

While Don Quixote and his squire were thus exchanging thoughts on the
subject of devils and their religion and what stuff they were made of,
the curate and the barber were saying farewell to Don Fernando, his
bride, Dorothea, Cardenio, Luscinda, the Judge and Doña Clara, as well
as to the Captain and the Captain's bride, Zoraida. All of them
promised to write to the curate, so that he in return might let them
know how his and Don Quixote's journey had ended.

After many embraces, the curate and the barber were ready to make
their departure when the landlord came running out with some papers
which he handed to the curate as a gift. The landlord said it was the
manuscript of the novel, "Rinconete and Cortadillo," a part of the
contents of the valise in which he had found the story of "Ill-Advised
Curiosity," which the curate had read aloud at the inn.

The curate thanked the innkeeper, saying that he hoped it was as good
as the other novel. Then he and the barber covered their faces that
they might not be recognized by Don Quixote, and took their places
behind the cart, mounted on their mules. The three officers of the
Brotherhood had been brought by the curate to escort them to El
Toboso, armed with muskets. And then Sancho Panza, mounted on his
donkey, led Rocinante by the reins. As the procession started, the
landlady came out to weep make-believe tears for Don Quixote, who
begged her to shed none, for in the end, he said, virtue would

At the head of the procession came the ox-cart, the officers of the
Brotherhood marching beside it, then followed Sancho Panza on his ass,
leading Rocinante by the bridle, and in the rear trailed the curate
and the barber on their mules. The slow pace of the oxen had to be
imitated by the rest, so the whole procession took on a solemn and
mysterious aspect, which was enhanced by the encaged Don Quixote's
stiff and stone-like form leaning against the wooden bars.

They had traveled several leagues, when the curate heard the sound of
riders approaching from behind. Turning in his saddle he perceived six
or seven men, mounted on mules, and riding at a quick pace. They had
soon overtaken the procession, and exchanged greetings with the curate
and the barber. One of the travelers was a canon of Toledo, and on
observing the fettered Don Quixote, with the armed officers of the
Brotherhood as an escort, he took it for granted that the knight was
some dangerous highwayman. Yet, scrutinizing the strange parade, he
could not help asking questions. So when he inquired of one of the
officers why Don Quixote was being transported in that way, the
officer did not know what to say but referred him for an explanation
to Don Quixote himself.

The knight errant had heard the canon's question, and he offered to
give him the information if he knew anything about errantry. As the
canon said he had read a good deal about knights errant and their
deeds, Don Quixote was quick to tell of his misfortune--how he had
been encaged and made helpless by enchantment. At this moment the
curate, seeing that the canon was talking to Don Quixote, and fearing
a mishap in the carrying out of their plan, came up and joined in the
conversation. He corroborated what the knight errant had just said,
and added that it was not for his sins that he was enchanted, but
because of his enemies' hatred of virtuous deeds, of which this famous
Knight of the Rueful Countenance was the strongest champion in their

When the good canon heard the two of them talk like that, he was at a
loss for words and felt he had to cross himself, in which action his
attendants joined him. But as luck would have it, Sancho Panza had
been listening, and seeing the curate disguised by a mask, the
suspicion crept into his head that he was trying to play a joke on his
master. So he burst into the conversation with a grudge against them

"Well, sirs, you may like it or not," he declared, "but my master is
as much enchanted as my mother! He is in his full senses; he can eat,
and sleep, and drink. Then why do they want me to believe that he is
enchanted? I have heard it said that when you are enchanted you cannot
do any of these things, nor talk. And my master will talk more than
thirty lawyers would if you do not stop him." Then turning to the
curate, he exclaimed: "And, señor curate, señor curate! Do you think I
do not know you? Well, I can tell you I do, for all your face is
covered; and I can tell you I am up to you, however you may hide your
tricks. If it had not been for your Worship, my master would be
married to the Princess Micomicona this minute, and I should be a
Count at least--for no less was to be expected."

And then the faithful Sancho went on to say that he had told all this
that the curate might weigh in his conscience the pranks he had played
on Don Quixote, and for which he would have to pay in heaven (if he
ever should come there) unless he did penance now. Here the barber
thought it best to put an end to Sancho's communications, and offered
him a place in the cage beside his master, but Sancho was quick to
retort: "Mind how you talk, master barber, for shaving is not
everything; and as to the enchantment of my master, God knows the

Soon after Sancho had commenced his tirade, the curate thought it
best, having listened to his own denunciation, to explain everything
concerning the knight errant and his squire to the canon. Therefore he
asked him to ride on ahead with him. When the canon had heard the
whole story, he remarked that he thought that books of chivalry were
really harmful, for not one of them was truthful. He was amused when
the curate related how he and the barber had burned nearly all of Don
Quixote's treasures in literature of this sort.

"But what mind," asked the canon, "that is not wholly barbarous and
uncultured can find pleasure in reading of how a great tower full of
knights sails away across the sea like a ship with a fair wind, and
will be to-night in Lombardy and to-morrow morning in the land of
Prester John of the Indies?"



The curate and the canon had become very much interested in their
subject, and the canon after a while confided to the curate that he
himself had once started to write a book on chivalry, with the
intention of making each incident in it a plausible one. It was his
view that fiction was all the better the more it resembled the truth.
Furthermore, he believed in adhering to good taste and to the rules of
art; these things, it seemed to him, had been ignored in the writing
of these books. From fiction the conversation drifted to playwriting,
and here again the curate and the canon were of the same mind. The
actors of their age chose plays that appealed to people of nonsense
and with bad taste. Instead of trying to improve the national taste,
they produced tawdry plays. The canon cited three excellent plays,
however, that he had seen at Madrid, which had earned great profits
for their producers; this proved to the canon that the great mass of
the public did appreciate a really good play if it was only produced.

While the two clergymen were thus whiling away the time, the barber
approached and told the curate they had reached a place which to him
seemed a good pasture for the oxen. It was now noon, and the canon
decided to join them in their rest. He offered them food out of the
provisions that he had brought along on a pack-mule. The rest of the
canon's mules were sent to an inn, which was seen nearby, to be fed

Seeing his master unguarded, Sancho decided the time had come when he
could speak undisturbedly to him, so he hastened to tell him of the
plot that the curate and the barber had hit upon. He told his master
he was certain it was out of envy and malice, for his having surpassed
them in fame and brave deeds. Don Quixote, however, calmly told his
squire that if he saw two shapes that resembled the barber and the
curate there, they could be nothing but devils having taken on the
appearance of his friends in order to be able to do their black deeds
so much the more safely and cruelly.



During his conversation with Sancho, Don Quixote suddenly felt it an
absolute necessity to leave the cage, and to stretch himself in the
open. So Sancho went to the curate to ask his permission, which he
received upon promising to answer for his master's not disappearing.
The curate and the canon went to the cage, and Don Quixote swore as a
knight that he would not run away, whereupon they untied his hands and

The first thing Don Quixote did was to go to his Rocinante; and then
the canon thought he would try to talk sense into him, to see whether
he could not persuade him to give up his crazy notions and ideas. Don
Quixote listened courteously and attentively, but when the canon had
finished, he turned to him and said he rather thought it was the canon
and not he who was afflicted and out of his wits, since he had the
audacity to blaspheme the order of knighthood. And then he went on,
describing the deeds of all the famous knights he had read of; and the
canon was really amazed at the great ease and clearness of mind with
which he related these tales of adventure. He thought it a pity that
so much knowledge of a wrong kind should be heaped into one brain.



What the canon had tried on the knight, Don Quixote now decided to try
on him. Was that not the great mission he had undertaken in the
world--to revive the spirit of chivalry? So he told the canon of the
many fine qualities he had developed since he was dubbed a knight,
such as courtesy, generosity, valor, good breeding, patience, and many
others that he mentioned; how he had learned to bear hardships of all
kinds, and now, of late, enchantment. He ended his long discourse by
expressing a desire that he might soon be an emperor, for, he said, he
wished to do good to some of his faithful friends, especially his
squire Sancho Panza.

Sancho heard his master's last words, and reminded him again of the
island that he was to govern. On hearing this, the canon broke in with
a few remarks about administration and government, and their
difficulties, and Sancho interrupted the canon to say it would be very
easy to find some one to do all that for him. In reply to this the
canon came forward with a good many arguments phrased in philosophical
language which the squire could make neither head nor tail of. So he
took up the thread of his own mind, and replied: "I have as much soul
as another, and as much body as any one, and I shall be as much king
of my realm as any other of his; so let the country come, and God be
with you, and let us see one another, as one blind man said to the

All the canon could do when he realized how badly both master and
servant were in the clutch of their beliefs and superstitions, was to
wonder at it. But by the time Sancho had finished his words, the
repast was being served on the grass.

As they were about to seat themselves, a goat came running from
between the trees, pursued by a man whose clear voice could be heard
distinctly from the distance. Soon he came up, and he caught the goat
by the horns and began to talk to her, calling her daughter, as if she
had been a child. The goat seemed to understand everything, and the
canon was so impressed with the scene that he asked the goatherd not
to be in a hurry, but to sit down and eat with them.

The goatherd accepted the invitation; and when they had finished the
repast, they had found that he was by no means a fool. When he asked
them if they would like to hear a true story, they were all anxious to
have him tell it to them. Only Sancho Panza withdrew, that he might
get a chance to load himself brimful of food; for he had heard his
master once say that a knight errant's squire should eat until he
could hold no more. The goatherd began his story, after having told
the goat to lie down beside him. She did so, and while the goatherd
was telling the story of his unfortunate love for Leandra, a rich
farmer's daughter, who had jilted both him and his rival Anselmo for
the good looks of a braggard by the name of Vicente de la Roca, the
goat was looking up into his face with an expression as it seemed of
understanding and sympathy.



All had enjoyed the goatherd's story, and they thanked him for it. Don
Quixote offered him the aid of his sword for the future, and said that if
he had not been enchanted at this moment he would at once set out to free
his Leandra. When the goatherd perceived Don Quixote's strange behavior
and appearance and heard his remarkable language, he was struck with
amazement, and asked the barber what madness was his, who talked like the
knights he had read about in the books of knight-errantry. Scarcely had
Don Quixote heard that he was being taken for a madman by the goatherd
than he flew at him in a raging fit. The most fierce battle ensued,
during which the faces of both men were scratched until they could hardly
be recognized. They fought in the midst of the setting for the meal, and
plates and glasses were smashed and upset. Both were urged on like dogs
by the rest of the company, and soon blood began to flow. Finally Don
Quixote stumbled, and the goatherd managed to get him on his back, while
Sancho was held off by one of the canon's servants, moaning all the while
because he could not go to his master's rescue.

Just then a trumpet blew a solemn note, and all listened in surprise.
Don Quixote was all eagerness: there was no doubt in his mind but that
he was being summoned by one in distress, so he asked for and received
an hour's truce from the goatherd. As soon as he was on his feet, he
ran to Rocinante, whom he bridled in great haste, and set off, armed
with lance, buckler, sword and helmet, in the direction of the sound.

What Don Quixote saw when he had ridden a short distance at his
charger's usual comfortable canter was a procession of penitents, clad
in white, some of whom were carrying an image, draped in black. The
procession had been called for by the priests who desired to bring
relief to the country, which had been suffering that year from a
terrific heat and a lack of rain. They were now marching to a nearby
hermitage, where they wanted to do penance, praying in silence to God
that he might have pity on them.

But what could such a procession have suggested to an imaginative mind
like Don Quixote's but one of the many incidents that he had read of
in his books of chivalry, where some great and worthy lady was being
carried away by evil forces? To the knight the covered image easily
became the worthy lady. Violently kicking Rocinante in the sides, for
he had not had time to put on his spurs, he tried to increase his
steed's canter to a gallop that he might attack in real knight errant

The faithful squire, the curate, the canon and the barber all did
their best to stop the knight by their yells. Sancho was frantic, and
cried after him: "Where are you going, Señor Don Quixote? What devils
have possessed you to set you against our Catholic faith? Plague take
me! It is a procession of penitents!" And then he asked him, filled
with horror and almost choking with tears, whether he knew what he was
doing. Why, he was charging the blessed image of the immaculate and
holy Virgin Mary! Sancho, seeing his master's lifted lance, could not
know that his master wanted to release her.

When Don Quixote had reached the penitents, he abruptly halted his
horse and demanded in no uncertain, though flowery, language that the
fair lady--whom, he said, he could plainly see they were carrying away
against her will--be released at once.

One of four priests, who had just begun to chant the Litany, stopped
on a high note and answered the knight that he must not hold up the
singing or the procession, for the marchers were doing penitence by
whipping themselves and could not stop once they had commenced the
ceremony. Again Don Quixote put forth his demand, this time in
language that seemed much more ludicrous to the penitents so that some
of them could not resist bursting into laughter. This sign of
disrespect was too much for our errant, who started his attack but was
prevented from finishing it by the blow of a stick carried by one of
the penitents. With one thwack of it he was felled to the ground.

Sancho had now come up, and when he saw his master stretched out, with
no sign of life, his eyes filled with tears, and he thrust himself
over his master's body, crying and wailing like a little child. It was
pitiful to see the sorrow and the devotion of the poor, simple-minded
fellow, bewailing his master's fall from the blow of a mere stick.
And he ended his tribute by thanking him for the great generosity he
had always shown; for Don Quixote, for but eight months of service,
had given him the best island that was afloat in the sea.

Sancho was suddenly called from his grief by the weak voice of the
knight, who implored his squire to mount him on the ox-cart, as his
shoulder was in a dilapidated condition. Then he commended himself to
his Lady Dulcinea, while Sancho recommended that they return with
their friends to their village, where they could prepare for another
sally at a more favorable time. The knight seemed inclined to take his
squire's advice, for he remarked that it was not a bad idea: that in
the meantime the prevailing evil influence of the stars might

By this time the curate, the canon and the officers of the Brotherhood
had arrived at the spot, and the curate found that he knew one of the
priests in the procession. This simplified matters considerably, for
he found it easy to explain to his friend the malady and peculiarities
of Don Quixote, which had been the cause of so much disturbance in so
short a time. After the curate had taken leave of the canon, the
goatherd and those in the procession, he paid off the officers, who
considered it unwise to accompany the party any further. The canon
begged the curate to keep him informed of any change in Don Quixote's
behavior, as he was most interested in his case. Then Don Quixote was
heaved into the cart where a stack of hay served as a softer
resting-place this time; and after six days of travel, the oxen and
the cart and the whole procession entered the La Mancha village. When
they passed the square, it being Sunday, the people crowded around
them, and all were amazed at what they saw.

Soon Don Quixote's niece and his housekeeper got word of his
homecoming. When they saw him, and observed his pallor and leanness,
they began to weep and beat their breasts, and curse all books of

Then Sancho Panza's wife learned the news, and as soon as she saw her
husband the first thing she asked him was whether the donkey was well. To
this greeting he replied that the donkey was better than he himself. And
then she pestered him with questions as to what he had brought back with
him for her and the children; to which he impatiently remarked that she
would have to wait until he got his island or empire, when she would be
called Her Ladyship. Of course, it was not to be expected that Teresa
Panza should understand this; and she did not. Sancho attempted to give
her an insight into the intricacies of knight-errantry by telling her of
some of his remarkable experiences, such as the blanketing, which stood
out in his mind's eye as the culmination of suffering in his career as a

While this was going on in the Panza household, Don Quixote had been
undressed and put to bed by his niece and the housekeeper. The curate
had told them what troubles and tribulations he had been forced to
undergo in order to restore him to his community and his loved ones.
So they decided, with fear in their hearts, to be ever watchful, lest
he escape and depart on another rampage. And again and again they
would curse the books that they had burned too late.




Don Quixote had been at home almost a month. During that time neither
the curate nor the barber had been to see him for fear that the sight
of them would remind him of his days of knight-errantry and make him
long for another campaign. They did visit the niece and housekeeper,
however, and advised them from time to time what to do; and at last
the women began to think that there was hope for our knight's being
restored to his right mind, for his conversation never touched upon
deeds of chivalry, and when he spoke on other subjects he always
talked most sanely.

Finally the curate and the barber decided to pay their friend a visit,
firmly resolved not to let the subject of conversation turn to
knight-errantry. They found him in bed, with a red Toledo cap on his
head. His face had changed greatly; it was so withered and yellow that
it resembled parchment rather than human flesh. He greeted them
cordially, however, and soon they engaged in an animated conversation,
which finally turned to such an intricate subject as government. So
unusually sane and clear was Don Quixote's reasoning that his friends
were amazed at the change that had taken place, and they felt quite
certain that he was cured. Then they began to discuss the news from
the capital, and the curate mentioned that the Turk was expected to
attack. Nobody knew when, he said, but in order to safeguard the
island of Malta and the coasts of Naples and Sicily, His Majesty had
already made provisions for the defense of these provinces.

Here Don Quixote interrupted and said that His Majesty could easily
settle the whole thing if he would only follow his advice. Both the
curate and the barber began to wonder and worry about what his plan
might be, but before divulging it Don Quixote insisted upon absolute
secrecy, which of course they promised. And then he began in the old,
familiar strain, citing the examples of the innumerable heroes of his
condemned books of chivalry, heroes who, single-handed, had conquered
armies of millions. He finished with a tirade about God's providing
such a knight errant to-day to save the nation and Christianity
against the onslaught of the heathen Turk, with an inference in his
last words that he was to be the chosen savior.

When the two women heard Don Quixote again rave in this manner, they
burst into tears, and the curate and the barber were as sorry and
concerned as the women. The curate turned in bewilderment to his poor
friend and asked him whether he truly believed that the heroes of these
tales of chivalry were men of flesh and blood. He himself, he said, was
convinced that these stories were nothing but fables and falsehoods, and
that none of the personages in them ever lived. Whereupon Don Quixote
began to ridicule the curate, and went on to describe his heroes,
saying that his faith was so strong that he could almost swear he had
seen Amadis of Gaul and some of the others he worshiped. Then he embarked
on a description of these knights, giving the color of their eyes, of
their beards and hair, their height, complexion, all according to his own
crazy imagination. Much of what he said seemed so amusing to his two
friends that they nearly went into hysterics from laughter. His mind's
image of Roland was particularly laughable, for he saw him as a
bow-legged, swarthy-complexioned gentleman with a hairy body, courteous
and well-bred.

On hearing Roland so pictured, the curate remarked it was no wonder
that he was jilted by the fair lady Angelica. To this Don Quixote
retorted that lady Angelica was a giddy and frivolous damsel with
desires that smacked of wantonness. He only regretted that Roland had
not been a poet that he might have libeled her in poetry for all

Here the knight was interrupted by the sound of loud talking in the
courtyard, intermingled with screams, and when he and the curate came
running they saw the two women struggling to keep a man from entering
the house.



The man turned out to be no other than Sancho, who wanted to see his
master. But the housekeeper and the niece were bent on not admitting
him, for they considered Sancho the arch enticer and felt that he was
to blame for Don Quixote's expeditions into the country. When Sancho
heard himself thus accused, he defended himself with accusations
against Don Quixote, who, he said, had been the one to hypnotize him;
and then he added that he had come to find out about his island.

As soon as Don Quixote recognized his squire, he quickly took him
inside, being afraid that he would tell the women all the little
details of the knight's adventures, such as the galley-slave episode
and others not tending to reflect honor on his shield. Whereupon the
barber and the curate left, both of them in despair of their friend's
ever being cured. The curate remarked that it would not surprise him
to learn before many moons that Don Quixote and Sancho had set off
again on another sally. They were curious to know what the master and
the servant might be discussing at that very moment. However, the
curate was of the firm belief that they could rely upon the two women
to keep their ears to the door. They would learn from them what had
been the topic, and what had been said.

When Don Quixote was alone with his squire, he expressed dismay over
his having told the housekeeper the knight had taken him from house
and home, when he knew perfectly well that he had gone of his own free
will. They had shared everything, he said; everything except blows,
where he had had a distinct advantage over his squire, having taken
ninety-nine out of a hundred beatings. This dividing of fortune,
Sancho thought, was quite as it should be, for of course knights
errant ought to share the greater benefits of the battle. Here Don
Quixote interrupted with a Latin quotation, which had an evil effect
on Sancho, for it made him retaliate with the blanket episode which to
him still seemed the height of all his suffering in the world. But
this attempt to belittle the fairness of his master's division of
honors in battle was speedily parried by Don Quixote, who maintained
that his squire's bodily suffering in the blanket was as nothing
compared with the painful agony of his own heart and soul when he had
seen his squire in such a predicament. And then he proceeded to
question Sancho as to public opinion of his deeds and valor.

Sancho was inclined to be reticent; but urged by Don Quixote--and
having been forgiven in advance for any vexation he might cause him by
telling the truth--he told of the variety of opinions that existed in
the village. This his master thought only natural; for when had the
world ever given full recognition to a genius or a great hero until
after he was dead? He pointed to all the great names he could
recollect in history that had been persecuted.

But Sancho had not come to the worst; and at last he found sufficient
courage to tell his master of a book entitled "The Ingenious Gentleman,
Don Quixote of La Mancha," which had already, he said, been spread
abroad. In this book not only Don Quixote, but he himself--under his own
name!--and the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso figured; and he was so stupefied
that he had to cross himself, for he could not imagine how everything
that had been told in the book--the most intimate happenings between Don
Quixote and himself--had come to be known to the author. Don Quixote
thought it was very plain that the adventures must have been reported by
some sage and enchanter; but Sancho told him that the author was one Cid
Hamet Berengena (meaning eggplant). It was no other than the son of
Bartholomew Carrasco, who had been a student at Salamanca, who had told
him all this, he said. He asked his master whether he should like to see
the young bachelor, and Don Quixote begged him to run and fetch him at
once, for, he said, he would be unable to digest a thing until he had had
a talk with him.

"Cid Hamet Berengena," repeated Don Quixote to himself. "That is a
Moorish name."

"Yes, I have heard the Moors like eggplant," added Sancho.

And then his lord and master asked: "Didst thou not mistake the
surname of this 'Cid,' which means in Arabic 'lord,' Sancho?"

"Perhaps," said Sancho; "but the bachelor can tell you that."

And he ran to fetch him.



While Sancho was gone, Don Quixote sat and worried about what the book
might be like; for what justice could be expected from the pen of a
Moor writing history? But perhaps it was not true that such a
chronicle had been written. It seemed almost an impossibility, for it
was only a short time since he returned from his achievements. What
worried him most was the thought that this Cid Hamet Berengena might
have made public in some odious way that great love and sacred passion
of his for the beautiful and virtuous Lady Dulcinea del Toboso.

As he was thus meditating Sancho returned, bringing with him the
younger Carrasco, who went by the strong name of Samson, in defiance
of his unpretentious size. But what he lacked in this respect, he made
up for in wit and humor. He was about twenty-four years of age, had a
round jovial face, a large mouth and a flat nose. What more need one
know to be inclined to think he might be mischievous? He gave proof of
it as soon as he entered, for he fell on his knees and kissed the
hero's hand respectfully, pronouncing him the first and foremost
warrior and knight of the age. Then he called down a blessing on the
name of Cid Hamet Benengeli, his noble biographer, and on the worthy,
learned man who had translated the work from the difficult Arabic into
their pure Castilian for the edification of all the Spanish people who
knew how to read their own language.

"So then there _is_ a history of me--and written by a Moor and a
sage?" asked Don Quixote, as he bade Samson rise.

The bachelor assented and went on to tell how the world was clamoring
for this remarkable chronicle of heroism and sacrifices. Don Quixote
remarked here what a great source of joy and inspiration it should
prove to a man with achievements to his credit to see himself in print
before being dead. The bachelor's opinion on the subject coincided
with his own; and Samson took the opportunity to pay homage to the
marvelous courage, intrepidity, gallantry, gentleness and patience of
Don Quixote, as the author had described it in the book. He also spoke
feelingly of the beautiful, platonic courtship of our knight errant;
and the mention of this caused Don Quixote to ask which of his many
acts of chivalry were most appealing to the reader. The bachelor
replied that that depended greatly upon the reader's taste: some liked
the adventure of the windmills that were enchanted giants; others
preferred reading about the two armies that suddenly turned into
droves of sheep; then again there were those who seemed to think the
victorious assault on the Biscayan made a thrilling chapter; while
many would swear they had never read anything that excited them
quite as much as the account of the liberation of the galley slaves.

Sancho interrupted him here, asking what was said of their experience
with the Yanguesans, when the good Rocinante went looking for
adventure and was bitten by the ponies. Samson replied that the sage
had forgotten nothing; not even the capers that Sancho himself had cut
in the blanket. Whereupon Sancho said: "I cut no capers in the
blanket. In the air I did, and more of them than I liked!" But Don
Quixote interposed here, saying that history must of necessity be more
than one-sided. It must take into its pages adversities as well as
good fortune.

Some people, the bachelor held forth, had expressed a desire that the
author might have eliminated some of the cruel thrashings he had given
the hero; but Sancho differed with these people and supported the
author unqualifiedly, saying, with a glance at Don Quixote, "That is
where the truth of the history comes in!"

Of course Don Quixote saw it in a different light, for he thought that
the thrashings tended to bring the hero of the book into contempt. The
author should have passed them over in silence, he said. Sancho
muttered something to himself, and Don Quixote admonished him to be
quiet so that the bachelor might tell him more of what was said of him
in the book.

"And about me!" broke in Sancho, "for they say that I am one of the
principal presonages in it."

"Personages," corrected Samson, adding that Sancho was the second
person in the chronicle, although many thought he was even first. He
also remarked that the author had been criticized for having inserted
a story called "Ill-Advised Curiosity," which had nothing to do with
Don Quixote whatever. This Don Quixote thought was an infringement on
the hero's rights, and corroborated the justification of the

Thus Don Quixote learned from the bachelor all about his own deeds and
exploits, as they had been given to the world by the great Moorish
sage Cid Hamet Benengeli. And when he had asked about himself again
and again, and had been satisfied by the replies of Samson, he found
it was nearly dinner time. Sancho took a hurried leave, fearing the
wrath of his wife if he were late for his meal, and Don Quixote asked
the bachelor to stay and keep him company.

All the while they were eating, Don Quixote entertained his guest with
tales of chivalry. When they finished their repast, they took a nap,
and when they awoke, Sancho was there waiting for them to return to
their conversation concerning the famous chronicle.



Samson was anxious to learn what Sancho had done with the hundred
crowns he had found in the knapsack. Sancho replied that he had spent
them for the benefit of himself, his wife and children; adding that,
had he come back to his wife without riches of any sort, he would have
had a doubtful reward waiting for him. Now, he said, if anybody wanted
to know anything about him, he was ready to answer the King himself.

"It is no one's business," said he, "whether I took the money, or did
not; whether I spent it or did not spend it, for if every beating I
have received in my master's service were to be valued at no more than
four maravedis, another hundred crowns would not pay me for half of
them. Let each look to himself and not try to make out white, black;
and black, white; for each of us is as God made us--aye, and often

Don Quixote was curious to know whether there was to be a second part
to the book; and Samson replied that the author was diligently looking
for one, but had as yet found none; so it remained only a possibility.
Yet, inspired by the profits he had made out of the first book, he was
anxious to find a second part, he said.

"The author looks for money and profit, does he?" asked Sancho. "Well,
let Master Moor, or whoever he is, pay attention to what he is doing,
and I and my master will give him adventures and accidents of all
sorts, enough to make up not only a second part but a hundred. The
good man fancies, no doubt, we are asleep in the straw here, but let
him hold up our feet to be shod and he will see which foot it is we go
lame on. All I say is, that if my master would take my advice, we
would now be afield, redressing outrages and righting wrongs, as is
the use and custom of good knights errant."

Scarcely had Sancho spoken these words, when Rocinante commenced to
neigh; and how could this be interpreted to be anything else than a
good omen? In an instant Don Quixote had resolved to sally forth again
in a few days. The bachelor warned him this time to expose himself to
no such tremendous risks as on his previous sallies, and begged him to
remember always, his life was no longer his own, but was dedicated to
those in need and in despair.

"There is what I abominate, Señor Samson," Sancho sustained him. "My
master will attack a hundred men as a greedy boy would half a dozen
melons. Body of the world, Señor bachelor, there is a time to attack
and a time to retreat!"

And here it was that Sancho felt it a solemn duty to himself and his
wife and offspring to come to a definite understanding with his master
regarding his position in battle. He wanted it stipulated that his
master was to do all the fighting. He would willingly look after his
master's and Rocinante's comfort, and keep them clean, but when it
came to drawing sword, he would leave that honor to Don Quixote, he
declared. He would do his duty so well that it would be worth a
kingdom as well as an island, both of which he would gladly accept.

The bachelor, having recommended Saragossa and the kingdom of Aragon
as hotbeds of adventure, Don Quixote thanked him and asked him whether
he was a poet; to which the bachelor replied that he was not one of
the famous ones. Don Quixote explained that he wanted a most original
idea of his carried out in poetry. Could Samson write a poem of love
in such a manner as to have the first letters of each line, reading
downward, form the name of his beloved one, the peerless Dulcinea del
Toboso? Samson promised he would try, but Don Quixote replied: "It
must be done by some means or other, for unless the name stands there
plain and manifest, no woman would believe the verses were made for
her." And so the bachelor promised to do it, and to have them ready
before the day of the departure, which would be on the third day.

Don Quixote extracted a promise from Samson to keep his intentions a
secret; and he and Sancho took leave of him, Don Quixote promising he
would not fail to send him word of his conquests. Sancho in the
meantime went home and began preparations for their second quest of



When Sancho came home that evening, his wife noticed at once by his
mood that something out of the ordinary had happened to him. After
much persuasion, he finally told her that he had made up his mind to
go out in the world again with his master, looking for strange
adventures, during which, he said, he hoped to come across another
hundred crowns that he would bring home to her. Then Sancho proceeded
to tell his wife of his great plans for the future, when he became
ruler of his island. Their daughter, Maria, he was going to marry
off to some great count; his wife would be Doña Teresa Panza, and he
pictured her already, dressed according to richest fashion, sitting in
her pew in church, surrounded by cushions and pillows, and walking on
a red plush carpet. And as to his son, he should, of course, as was
the custom, follow his father's trade; so what was he to do but be a

But everything that her illustrious husband proposed, Teresa Panza
only sneered at; and this angered Sancho, who thought she might be
more appreciative. Certainly not every husband in their village
offered to do as much for his wife and family. And so they began to
quarrel with each other, Sancho using--as he invariably did with his
master--all the proverbs he had ever heard, to defeat the arguments
his wife put forward, enforced in the same manner. But when her good
Sancho finally lost his patience with her entirely, she gave in and
promised to go so far as to send their young son to him--that his
father might train him in the business of government--as soon as
Sancho, as the governor of the island, should send his wife the
necessary money. Sancho charged her particularly with the task of
seeing that the son on his departure should be dressed as a prince of
the blood.

And all the while poor Teresa Panza was receiving her husband's
instructions as to herself and her two children, she was bemoaning and
struggling against their fate in her heart; and at last she burst
into bitter tears. Seeing her in such agony because he had predestined
that their daughter Maria was to marry a mighty count instead of a
poor peasant boy, Sancho tried to soothe her feelings by telling her
that he would try to put off the day of the wedding as long as
possible; and this promise seemed to cheer Teresa Panza to some
extent, for she dried her tears.

Having accomplished so much, Sancho then went back to his master's
house to talk over some things of importance with him.



While Sancho and his wife were flinging proverbs at each other at home,
there was another scene of unrest at Don Quixote's house. The housekeeper
had had a premonition of her master's impending expedition, and soon
perceived by his actions that she had not been alarmed in vain. She and
the niece employed all possible means to restrain him from faring forth;
but to all their admonitions and advice and prayers he made the same
reply: that there must be knights errant in the world to defend the weak
and virtuous and to punish arrogance and sin, and that he was the one to
set the world aright on that score. And when his niece began to bewail
his stubbornness and called down the wrath of heaven upon all tales of
chivalry, he threatened to chastise her for uttering such blasphemies.
Then he burst into a tirade on things and usages pertaining to chivalry,
a discourse so saturated with knowledge that it called forth a cry of
astonishment, a wail of disappointment, and a sigh of pity from the
niece, to whom it suddenly seemed that her uncle had missed his vocation
in life when he did not become a preacher.

This drove Don Quixote to discourse on almost everything under the
sun, and he finished up by reciting poetry, at which the niece became
terror-stricken from superstition, and exclaimed that her uncle knew
everything in the world. She even dared to suppose he knew something
about masonry and could build a house. This daring thought of hers he
immediately corroborated by saying that if he were not so occupied
with dealing out justice to the world, there would be nothing he could
not do, from building cages to making toothpicks.

Just then there was a knock at the door. It was Sancho Panza. As soon
as the housekeeper learned it was he, she fled from the room, for she
had grown to detest him like sin itself. The niece opened the door for
him, and he hastened to his master's room, where he was welcomed by
Don Quixote. And soon they were in the midst of a conversation, which
took place behind locked doors.



As soon as the housekeeper heard Don Quixote turn the key in the door,
she realized the urgency of the situation, put on her shawl, and ran
to the house of the bachelor Samson Carrasco. She knew that her master
had taken a fancy to this learned young man and thought he might be
able to persuade him to give up the crazy idea. She fell on her knees
before Samson and told him in excited language that her master had
broken out again.

"Where is he breaking out?" asked the roguish bachelor.

"He is breaking out at the door of his madness," replied the
bewildered housekeeper. "I mean he is going to break out again, for
the third time, to hunt all over the world for what he calls

And then she went on to say that his first sally ended in his being
brought back home, slung across the back of a donkey. The second time
he made his entry into the village in an ox-cart, shut up in a cage,
and looking so worn and emaciated that his own mother would not have
known him. The last escapade had been an extremely expensive one, for
it had taken no less than six hundred eggs to cover up his bones

The bachelor quieted the housekeeper, and promised her to do all he
could for her master. Then he advised her to return home and prepare
something hot for breakfast, and on her way home to repeat the prayer of
Santa Appolonia. He himself would be there in time for breakfast, he
said. The housekeeper remonstrated with the bachelor for prescribing the
prayer of Santa Appolonia, which, she declared, was for toothache and not
for brains; but Samson told her to do as he bade her, reminding her that
he was a learned bachelor of Salamanca and knew what he was talking
about. The housekeeper then left, saying her prayer, and the bachelor
went to look for the curate that they might decide what to do.

In the meantime Don Quixote and Sancho were discussing what the future
was holding for them, and Sancho gave the glad news to his master that
he had induced his wife to sanction his departure and his becoming
governor. Sancho was very much annoyed by his master's continual
interruptions and corrections. Whenever Sancho would misuse or abuse a
word, as he did in almost every sentence, Don Quixote would stop and
ask him what he meant, until poor Sancho was so confused that he did
not know what he had meant. Finally Don Quixote asked him to tell him
all that his wife had said, and as soon as Sancho had a chance to use
proverbs again, he felt more at home. "Teresa says," he repeated,
"that I should make sure with your Worship, and let papers speak and
beards be still. One _take_ is better than two _I'll give thee's_."

"And so say I," said Don Quixote. "Continue, Sancho my friend. Go on;
thou talkest pearls to-day."

"The fact is," continued Sancho, "that, as your Worship knows better
than I do, we are all of us liable to death, and to-day we are, and
to-morrow we are not. The lamb goes as soon as the sheep, and nobody
can promise himself more hours of life in this world than God may be
pleased to give him; for death is deaf, and when it comes to knock at
our life's door, it is always insistent, and neither prayers, nor
struggles, nor scepters, nor miters, can keep it back, as they tell us
from the pulpits every day."

Here Don Quixote felt he ought to ask a question. "Sancho," said he,
"all that is true; but what art thou driving at?"

And then came the reason for all these long-winded preliminaries.
Sancho wanted his master to make definite arrangements with him for
compensation. But here was the drawback. Don Quixote could recall no
incident in any of the many books he had read, when a knight errant
had given his squire fixed wages. How could he possibly establish a
precedent now? And so it became his sad and solemn duty to refuse his
squire's miserly request, and inform him that his services were no
longer wanted. Not only that, but our valiant hero was cruel enough to
remark that there would be any number of people who would be only too
eager to serve him; and, what was more, he was convinced that no one
could be less careful and diligent, or more thick-headed and talkative
than Sancho.

Poor Sancho stood thunderstruck. He had expected his master would
address him in a much more gracious manner; and had taken for granted
that his own person was indispensable to his master. As he stood there
gaping in amazement, the bachelor, Samson, suddenly entered, followed
by the niece and the housekeeper. Samson threw himself on his knees
before the knight, passionately declaiming:

"O flower of knight-errantry! O shining light of arms! O honor and
mirror of the Spanish nation! May God Almighty grant that any person
or persons who would impede or hinder thy third sally, may find no way
out of the labyrinth of their schemes, nor ever accomplish what they
most desire!"

Then he rose and turned to the housekeeper, who was distressed and
astonished beyond words, telling her it was no use gainsaying her
master; that he had made up his mind, and no Santa Appolonia or any
other prayer would cause him to change it. Whereupon he addressed Don
Quixote again in the same lofty way, and slyly asked him whether he
would deign to accept him as his squire or as his meanest servant.

Sancho's eyes nearly bulged out of his head at this, and filled with
tears. Fearing that he might lose both his master and his island, he
embraced Don Quixote's knees and kissed his hand, begging Don Quixote
not to give him up. Then he began to plead with him to leave the
village at once. Don Quixote, having taken the squire into his fold
again, embraced him, and then conferred with the bachelor and decided
that they would set out three days hence. Samson promised to obtain a
helmet for Don Quixote before the departure.

In the meantime the bachelor had daily conferences with the curate and
the barber. The niece and the housekeeper were cursing the evil and
learned bachelor of Salamanca, and hardly slept at night for fear
that Don Quixote would steal away in the darkness.

Finally the night of the third day arrived, and Don Quixote and
Sancho, accompanied by Samson, quietly and secretly stole out of the
village, in the direction of El Toboso. When they had ridden half a
league, Samson wished the knight errant godspeed, embraced him
tenderly, begged him to let him hear of his good fortune, and then he
returned to the village.



Scarcely had Samson departed before Rocinante began to neigh, and
Dapple, Sancho's donkey, to bray; and these animal expressions,
considering the time, and the road they were taking, were interpreted
by their respective masters to be omens of good luck. But it so
happened that Dapple kept up his braying. As a matter of fact he
brayed so much louder than the emaciated Rocinante could neigh that
the superstitious Sancho took it for a sign that his own good fortune
would be ever so much greater than that of his master, though he was
considerate enough to say nothing about it to him.

Night soon began to fall, and the conversation between master and
squire turned to Don Quixote's incomparable love, whom he had never
seen in the flesh, and to whose abode he was now making this
pilgrimage in the dark, that he might be blessed by her before going
into new battles.

Sancho was beginning to worry that his imagination, with which he was
not overburdened, would give out; for with every new question of his
master's he had to give a fresh answer, and he was in a deadly fear
that Don Quixote might discover that he had never been at El Toboso
with the letter to his Lady Dulcinea. Again Don Quixote asked his
squire to repeat how he had been received when he had brought her the
message of his master's penance in the wilderness, but it infuriated
him that Sancho should insist on her having been sifting wheat instead
of pearls on that occasion. The courtyard wall mentioned by his squire
must, of course, have been a portico, or corridor, or gallery of some
rich and royal palace, only Sancho's language was so limited he could
not express himself or describe things properly. Or perhaps that
infernal enchanter had been busy again, and made things appear in
different shapes before his squire's eyes.

What his master said made Sancho's thought suddenly turn to the book
which the bachelor Samson had spoken of, and he began to worry that
some enchanter might have misrepresented his true character in its
pages. He felt it his place and duty to defend himself aloud against
any such evil; and having his master as audience, he proceeded to
carry out this thought, which, however, he abandoned towards the end
in favor of a careless independence: "But let them say what they like;
naked was I born, naked I find myself. I neither lose nor gain. When I
see myself put into a book and passed on from hand to hand all over
the world, I don't care a fig. Let them say what they like of me!"

Perhaps what Sancho had just said made Don Quixote's thoughts drift
out into the world, which was now being stirred by the accounts of his
greatness, for he fell into contemplation on all the tombs and
monuments to the great men of past ages. He touched upon the tombs of
some who had become saints, when suddenly Sancho shot this question to
him out of a clear sky: "Tell me, which is the greater work, to bring
a dead man to life or to kill a giant?"

Don Quixote was dumfounded by his squire's suddenness, but replied:
"The answer is easy. It is a greater work to bring to life a dead

"Now I have got you!" Sancho exclaimed. Then he divulged his longing,
which he wanted his master to share, to become a saint; viewing a
saint's life from all sides, he had come to the conclusion that it was
a much more peaceful life than that of a roving knight errant, who had
to be up at all hours and out in all sorts of weather.

But his master answered laconically: "We cannot all be friars." And
then he went on to say that the number of knights errant in the world,
deserving that name, was a very small one; that, as a matter of truth,
knight-errantry, was a religion. But Sancho, stubborn as usual,
insisted that there were more friars in heaven than knights errant. In
this way they passed that night and the following day, without any
trace of excitement or adventure.

Finally, at daybreak on the second day, they approached the great
city of El Toboso; and Sancho's worries increased as they came closer
to the place where the heart of the peerless Dulcinea was beating--for
what was he going to say or do when his master wanted to meet his
beloved one? Don Quixote decided to await dusk before entering the
city, and they spent the day resting in the shade of some oak-trees
outside the town.



It was midnight when they rode into El Toboso. It was a very dark
night, so Sancho could not be blamed for not finding the house in the
darkness. They were greeted by a multitude of noises: barking dogs,
braying asses, mewing cats, and grunting pigs; noises that seemed like
an ill omen to Don Quixote. He suddenly turned to Sancho and said:
"Sancho, my son, lead on to the place of Dulcinea. It may be that we
shall find her awake."

"Body of the sun! What palace am I to lead to, when what I saw Her
Highness in was only a very little house?" exclaimed the squire.

"Most likely she had then withdrawn into some small apartment of her
palace," said Don Quixote, "to amuse herself with her damsels, as
great ladies and princesses are accustomed to do."

Here Sancho told his master to have it his own way, but asked him
whether he thought it in conformity with the behavior of a gentleman
to go around in the middle of the night knocking at people's doors.
Don Quixote dispensed with the discussion of this particular point;
all he wanted to do, he said, was to find the house. Then they could
discuss how to proceed. So they roamed about the city, Don Quixote
insisting that first one house and then another was the palace of his
love, until they finally hit upon the great tower of the church. At
last he had found it, he declared. Here was where she dwelt, he was
quite sure.

But Sancho, hearing this and seeing it was a church, began to feel ill
at ease, for his superstitious soul did not like the idea of walking
across a graveyard at such an hour of the night. He quickly told his
master, he was now certain that the Lady Dulcinea lived in an alley, a
kind thought which was rewarded by a fierce outburst from Don Quixote.

"The curse of God on thee for a blockhead!" he exclaimed. "Where hast
thou ever heard of castles and royal palaces being built in alleys?"

"I wish I saw the dogs eating it for leading us such a dance," was all
that Sancho said in reply.

But evidently this was not a pleasing answer to Don Quixote, for he
admonished his squire: "Speak respectfully of what belongs to my lady;
let us keep the feast in peace, and not throw the rope after the

Sancho muttered something about how he could be expected to find, in
the dark of night, a house he had only seen once in his lifetime, when
his master, who must have seen it hundreds of times, could not
recognize it. To this his master retorted wearily that he had told him
a thousand times that he was enamored only by hearsay, and had never
visited Dulcinea in her palace.

At this moment a laborer on his way to his work came along on the
road, singing a dreary song. It was only another omen to Don Quixote
that his efforts to approach his lady would not be crowned with
success that night. He asked the man to direct him to the palace of
his princess, but the laborer turned out to be a stranger, having only
just come to the city.

Don Quixote was grieved that he could not find Dulcinea, and when
Sancho suggested that they withdraw from the city and develop a plan
for seeing her, he was ready to accept it. So they left El Toboso and
hid in a forest nearby. There it was decided that Sancho should return
to the city as the messenger of love for his master.



Don Quixote instructed Sancho to ask his lady for an audience for him,
and he begged his squire to observe every little change in her
expression and demeanor, that he might tell him about it afterward.
Sancho then set off on Dapple; but as soon as he was out of sight, he
dismounted, seated himself on the ground, and took measure of the
situation aloud. In a meditative soliloquy he discussed with himself
the problem that was his, and he finally reasoned that there was a
remedy for everything except death. If his master could take windmills
for giants, and a flock of sheep for an army, why could he not take
black for white, and any country lass that came along, for his
princess? Having reached this satisfactory conclusion, he decided to
remain where he was till in the afternoon, in which time he could
reasonably have gone to El Toboso and returned.

As the afternoon arrived, three country girls came along on their
donkeys, on the road from the city. The moment Sancho saw them, he
mounted his ass and returned to find his master, who nearly went out
of his head with joy, and promised Sancho the three next foals from
his three mares, when his squire told him that the Lady Dulcinea was
coming to see him, accompanied by two of her ladies-in-waiting. And
then the lying Sancho went on to describe them: how they were robed in
richest brocade, and weighted down with jewels--precious stones and
pearls. But when Don Quixote saw the three peasant girls approach, he
said he could see nothing but three jackasses and three girls. Any
princess, or any one like one, he failed to see. Finally Sancho
persuaded him to believe that those he saw were really three ladies,
one of them being the Peerless One, who had come to bestow her
blessing upon him. And so Don Quixote fell on his knees in the dust of
the road before the girls, giving vent to his immeasurable gratitude
to her, his queen, who had come all this distance to give him her

When the ugly peasant girl heard herself called a queen and Dulcinea,
she thought that Don Quixote was trying to play a joke on her, so she
got angry, and yelled to him: "Get out of the way, bad luck to you,
and let us pass, for we are in a hurry!" and left the astonished
knight crawling in the dust.

Sancho had also fallen to his knees, to help his master in his plea
for blessing, and he called out after the peasant girls: "Oh, princess
and universal lady of El Toboso, is not your heart softened by seeing
the pillar and prop of knight-errantry on his knees before your
sublimated presence?"

When the wenches were out of sight, Don Quixote turned to his squire
and bemoaned, cast-down, his evil fate, and the length his sage enemy
would go to gain his ends. The very worst thing of all, he said, was
that the evil enchanter had turned his Dulcinea into an ugly peasant,
who smelled of garlic. And while Don Quixote was thus complaining,
Sancho struggled to hide his laughter, happy to have saved himself and
to have played such a joke on his master.

At last Don Quixote was ready to mount his hack, and they steered
their beasts in the direction of Saragossa.



Sancho did his best to imbue his master with a new inspiration; for
Don Quixote was a sorry sight as he was riding along on his hack. The
enchantment of his Dulcinea had been a great blow to him. He fell into
a sort of meditative slumber, from which he would rouse himself only
now and then. Suddenly, however, he was fully awake, for on the road
he saw before his very eyes a cart with Death on the front seat, and
drawn by mules that were being led by the Devil himself.

As soon as the knight could gather his senses, he distinguished the
rest of the strange company that occupied the cart. Next to Death sat
an ugly angel with wings, and on the other side Don Quixote observed
an emperor with a crown of gold on his head. Then he discovered
Cupid--who was a god--and a knight with plumes in his hat. There were
a number of other figures, all weird and awe-inspiring, in strange
costumes and with curious faces, and when Sancho saw them he turned as
pale as Death himself, and his teeth began to chatter from fright.
Even Don Quixote was more than startled, but his heroism soon asserted
itself, and he was quickly himself again, glad to sense another
adventure. He gave Rocinante the spur, the lean hack sprang forward to
the cart at a sickly gallop, and Don Quixote exclaimed: "Carter or
coachman, or devil or whatever thou art, tell me at once who thou art,
whither thou art going, and who these folk are thou carriest in thy
wagon, which looks more like Charon's boat than an ordinary cart!"

To this challenge the devil responded on behalf of himself and his
fellow-travelers, explaining that they were harmless players of Angulo
el Malo's company; that they had been acting the play of "The Cortes
of Death" in the village from which they had just come; and since they
had to act the same play in a village nearby in the afternoon, they
wished to save themselves the trouble of making up twice, by remaining
in their costumes. The devil was extremely polite and offered to give
Don Quixote any information he could, adding that, being the devil, he
was up to everything; besides he played the leading parts, he said.
Don Quixote told them how disappointed he was that this had not turned
out to be another adventure; then he wished them a happy journey,
saying that ever since he was a child he had been an admirer of the
actor and fond of his art.

As they were about to take leave, one of the mummers, with three blown
ox-bladders at the end of a stick, came up and banged them against the
ground under Rocinante's nose; and the frightened animal set off
across the plain as if he had been shot out of a cannon, taking the
bit in his teeth. Sancho was so certain his master would be thrown
that he left his donkey and ran as fast as he could after Rocinante.
But when he reached Don Quixote, the knight was already on the ground
and with him Rocinante, whose legs always seemed to give away after a
sudden strain.

Now, as soon as Sancho had run away from Dapple, the crazy devil with
the bladders was on his back tickling his ears with them, and the
donkey flew across the fields toward the village as if beset.

Seeing his faithful one running away, Sancho was in mortal agony, as
well as in a quandary, for he did not know whether to attend to the
donkey or his master first. Finally he found his love for human beings
was the greater, and rushed to his master's side. When he had helped
him to mount, he told him that the devil had run away with Dapple.
Immediately Don Quixote was ready to pursue the enemy; but just then
the squire saw his Dapple come running back, and cautioned his master
to be meek.

But Don Quixote was eager to give the mummer a lesson in courtesy,
even, as he said, if he had to visit his sin upon the rest of the
company, not barring the Emperor himself. Sancho did his best to warn
his master that there was great danger in meddling with actors, as
they were a favored class; but had the King himself interfered in
their behalf, it would not have stayed the hand of the errant

So Don Quixote drew forth, and caught up with the cart as it was close
to the village. He commanded the players to halt, saying he wanted to
teach them how to be courteous to donkeys and animals that served
squires and knights errant for steeds. The merrymakers could tell by
his stentorian tone that he was not jesting, so they all quickly
jumped out of the cart and armed themselves with stones.

By this time Sancho had reached the scene of action, and as soon as
he saw the threatening attitude of the strollers, he begged his master
not to fight against either Death or the angels, particularly since
neither one of them was a knight errant; nor was there any one in the
whole company who was. This point Don Quixote thought was wisely
taken, and he ordered his squire to fight the battle himself. But
Sancho said he preferred to show a Christian spirit and forgive, and
promised his master he would come to an agreement with his donkey to
leave his end of the grievance to the squire's goodwill.

Don Quixote let Sancho have his way; and when they had seen the
caravan of mountebanks disappear, Sancho was happy in the thought that
he had averted a great calamity for himself and his master.



They passed that night under some cork-trees, and while they were
eating their supper, Sancho as usual became talkative and again gave
proof of his chronic weakness for proverbs. Every phrase abounded with
them. As ever, he would use them to fit the wrong case, or twist them
so as to fit what he wanted them to fit. Don Quixote had to laugh at
his squire's simplicity, and at the way he tried to imitate his
master's manner of speaking. His words and expressions were indeed a
strange mixture. One moment he would use the most abominable grammar
and the next he would borrow the language of Don Quixote, repeating in
stilted fashion the polite phrases he had heard Don Quixote use in his
flowery discourses on knighthood and chivalry.

Soon after they had fallen asleep, Don Quixote was awakened by the
sound of men's voices. He quickly rose, curious and anxious to learn
who the disturbers were, and was amazed to behold a real knight, clad
in full armor, dismount from his horse, while speaking words that
indicated he was lovesick and in despair. Don Quixote hastened to call
Sancho, who awoke to the tune of a love sonnet sung by the strange
knight, and was as startled as his master had been, though, perhaps,
not greatly thrilled at this promise of a new adventure in the middle
of the night.

But if Don Quixote was surprised when he was awakened, what was his
amazement when he suddenly heard such words as these: "O fairest and
most ungrateful woman on earth! Can it be possible, most serene
Casildea de Vandalia, that thou wilt suffer this thy captive knight to
waste away and perish in ceaseless wanderings and rude and arduous
toils? Is it not enough that I have compelled all the knights of
Navarre, the Leonese, the Tartesians, and the Castilians, and finally
all the knights of La Mancha to confess thee the most beautiful in the

Don Quixote took exception to this last statement in silence, knowing
that his chance to correct it was at no great distance. But Sancho
soon gave himself and his master away to the Knight of the Grove by
becoming too talkative, and they were hailed by the knight, who
greeted them in the most courteous manner, when he learned who they

The two knights errant soon were engaged in a friendly conversation,
which Sancho could not restrain himself from breaking into; but the
Knight of the Grove was quick to reprimand him, saying he never
permitted his squire to open his mouth. Whereupon Sancho persuaded
himself and the squire of the Grove to remove to a spot where they
could talk between themselves without being overheard by their
superiors, and where they might be undisturbed by any yoke of
knighthood etiquette.



The two squires drank and talked most of the night, bemoaning the fate of
squires in general. Before they finally fell asleep, the squire of the
Grove suggested that, since they both were tired of knight-errantry, they
give up the life. To this Sancho replied that he would remain in his
master's service until he arrived at Saragossa, when he might decide to
leave him.

In the meantime the two knights also were exchanging confidences; and
the Knight of the Grove told Don Quixote of all the great and famous
errants he had conquered in single combat. Don Quixote was all ear,
but nearly gasped for breath when he heard the knight say that he had
vanquished the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, and had made him
confess that his own Casildea was more beautiful by far than the La
Mancha knight's Dulcinea. Don Quixote suppressed a scornful smile that
threatened to betray him, and controlled the feelings that the
boasting errant's words provoked, while wondering at the braggart's
audacity. He slyly expressed a doubt, however, that the valiant knight
Don Quixote of La Mancha had let himself be vanquished by any living
being. The Knight of the Grove then gave a description of Don Quixote
which in every detail fitted him.

That drew Don Quixote out of his originally assumed indifference. He
told the knight that he himself was no other than that famed and
illustrious errant, and declared that any other one that had appeared
as Don Quixote, must have been some enchanter who had disguised
himself to resemble him, in order to defraud him of the honor that was
rightly due to him. Then he proceeded to tell the knight how his enemy
had transformed the Lady Dulcinea, and challenged the Knight of the
Grove to single combat if he dared to question what Don Quixote
maintained to be the truth.

To this challenge the Knight of the Grove retorted that since he had
once vanquished the semblance of Don Quixote, he would now welcome the
opportunity of meeting him in combat in his own proper shape. Being a
cautious and cold-blooded knight, however, he suggested to Don Quixote
that they should rest until the morning, when the mighty struggle
could ensue in the light of day. It was further agreed that the
vanquished knight should place himself at the command of the victor,
to fulfill any desire of his within the bounds of chivalry.

Each one was eager to inform his own squire of what the morning was to
behold, so they awoke Sancho and the squire of the Grove and told
them. Sancho was scared that his master might not be the gainer, for
the squire of the Grove had been feeding him with stories of his
master's conquests all that night until they had fallen asleep, drunk
with wine.

The squires went to get the horses ready, and on the way Sancho was
aghast to learn that he would have to fight the friendly squire of the
Grove in cold blood, this squire maintaining that such was a rule
among knights errant. Sancho said he would rather give two pounds of
wax to the church than fight with him; furthermore, he said, he could
not, for he had no sword, and never had had one. Whereupon the
friendly squire told him that did not matter, and proceeded to make
ready two linen bags, both of the same size, saying they could fight
their duel in this fashion. This was most pleasing to Sancho, until he
perceived the other squire filling the bags with pebbles, when he
remonstrated, saying he thought their masters could settle the whole
affair without their interference. But his friend the squire insisted
that they fight, even if it should be only for half an hour, and
offered--if he should have any difficulty in rousing himself to the
occasion--to give Sancho a few cudgels and whacks to act as an

By this time it was beginning to dawn, and Sancho was watching the
sunrise. As he looked around, the first object that he saw the sunrays
strike was the nose of the squire of the Grove, protruding out of the
opened visor of his helmet. It was an object so fearful to look at
that Sancho Panza was paralyzed with fright. The nose was so large it
seemed uncanny. It was covered with warts and was bent at a tremendous
angle, and it hung down way beneath his chin, while its color was that
of an eggplant. It was a face so horrible and ugly to look at that
Sancho's eyes nearly rolled out of his head. He acted as if he were
about to have convulsions, for he began to tremble from head to foot.
When Don Quixote beheld the squire's countenance, even he began to
show signs of feebleness, but his bravery overcame his fears. He
shrugged his shoulders as if shaking off an evil spirit, and was ready
for the combat with his adversary.

Before the battle began, Sancho pleaded with his master to help him up
into a tree; so afraid was he of this monstrous squire with the awful
nose. But while Don Quixote was hoisting his faithful one up into a
cork-tree, he suddenly heard the knight approach on his steed behind
him, and not knowing whether it was squire or master, and being
subconsciously afraid of the nose, one blow of which might have felled
him, it seemed, he turned around and made straight for the knight.

The facts were that this gentleman was trying to limber up the joints
of his charger--a hack of the same caliber as Rocinante--and was just
taking his horse on a tour of exercise, making him skip hither and
thither, wherever his master's agonized spurring would carry him. Each
time he would land heavily on his stiff legs, and it was when Don
Quixote suddenly heard the sound of such a landing behind him that he
turned. But by the time Rocinante had completed the turn, which was a
movement of much contemplation and hesitation on his part, the back of
the Knight of the Grove shone in the distance. Charging by sound and
instinct rather than by sight, not seeing whether the knight was
coming or going, Don Quixote set upon him with such blind fury that
with one thrust of his lance he sent the bespangled gentleman flying
out of his saddle, so that he fell flat on the ground, seemingly dead.

Now, when Sancho saw what an auspicious beginning and ending the
adventure had had for his master, he heaved a sigh of relief and
contentment and climbed down from his tree, approaching the lifeless
monster with caution and superstitious awe. But he had taken only one
look into his face, when he began to cross himself with so many
motions and contortions that Don Quixote thought his squire had gone
insane. Turning to his master, who had been contemplating his victory
with pride from the back of Rocinante, Sancho begged him to thrust his
sword into the mouth of his vanquished foe. Scarcely had he made this
suggestion before Don Quixote drew his sword and advanced to carry it
out, when the squire of the Grove, now minus the drooping nose, ran
forward, wildly exclaiming: "Mind what you are about to do, Señor Don
Quixote! That is your friend the bachelor, Samson Carrasco, you have
at your feet, and I am his squire!"

"And the nose?" Sancho broke in, unable to restrain his amazed

"I have it here in my pocket," answered the squire of the Grove, as he
pulled out and showed him a false nose of immense proportions.

Whereupon Sancho eyed the squire more carefully, and suddenly cried
out: "Holy Mary be good to me! Isn't it Tom Cecial, my neighbor and

And Tom was only too glad to confess that he was.

At this very moment the bachelor returned from the dead, and when Don
Quixote saw him open his eyes, he pointed his sword at his face and
swore that the Knight of the Mirrors--thus he called the Knight of the
Grove because of his shining regalia--would be a dead man if he did
not pronounce the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso the most beautiful woman in
the world. Furthermore, he demanded that he swear to present himself
before the Peerless One in the city of El Toboso, that she might deal
out judgment upon him. Having been dealt with by her, the Knight of
the Grove was to return to inform him of the punishment, giving a full
account of what had passed between them.

The fallen Samson gladly confessed to everything, including his belief
in the true identity of his conqueror. He felt an urgent need for
medicine and plaster, and he and his squire departed quickly to seek
such aid in the nearest village, while Don Quixote and Sancho took the
road which lead to Saragossa.



As Don Quixote was bumping along on his lean Rocinante, he was
dreaming of the return of the Knight of the Mirrors, who would bring
him word about his beloved one. He was anxious to know whether she was
still enchanted. Then he thought of the great victory he had won over
this bold knight, and it was perhaps only pardonable if it aroused
some conceit in his breast.

But while Don Quixote was contemplating thus, the bachelor-knight kept
bemoaning the fate he had brought upon himself. He had dubbed himself
Knight at his own instigation, for the kindly and unselfish purpose of
unseating and vanquishing Don Quixote in battle, thinking, of course,
that that would be an easy matter to accomplish. It was for good
reasons he had proposed that the vanquished one should place himself
at the disposal of the victor. The bachelor, the curate, and the
barber had conferred after Don Quixote's departure as to what to do,
and when the bachelor Samson offered to go crusading and to bring back
Don Quixote, the two gossips were pleased beyond words. A neighbor of
Sancho's, Tom Cecial by name, was induced to become the squire of the
knight Samson.

Both knight and squire were now contemplating in a sorry mood the
disastrous outcome of their encounter with the Knight of the Rueful
Countenance. As they were staggering along on their decrepit mounts,
the squire summed up the thoughts of his master Samson in this
question: "I'd like to know now which is the madder, he who is so
because he can not help it, or he who is so of his own choice?"

While the learned bachelor was thoroughly in accord with the good
reason for asking such a question, he could not at the same time help
acknowledging the fact that the thrashing he had received was paining
him. The desire he had had when he started out looking for Don
Quixote--to bring him back to his home and his wits--was now changed
into a wild inner cry for revenge.

At last some of the physical agony of the Knight of the Mirrors was
stilled by a quack, whom they found in a town along the road. Tom Cecial,
the squire for a day and a night, had been cured of knight-errantry and
returned to his less venturesome occupation in his La Mancha village; but
the thoughts of evilness would not leave his master, who stayed behind,
bent on having his revenge.



While Don Quixote was contemplating his own greatness as a reviver of
knight-errantry, the monstrous nose of the squire kept coming before
Sancho in his fancies. When he told his master, Don Quixote asked him
whether he ever for a moment doubted that the knight of the Mirrors
and his squire were anything but enchanted and made to appear like the
two village friends of theirs. The idea that Samson, who was such a
devoted friend of his, should be envious of his deeds in battle and
have wanted to steal away honors from him as a knight, was too absurd;
and with this he dismissed the subject.

While they were discussing these matters and the enchantment of the
Lady Dulcinea, they were passed by a gentleman on horseback, and Don
Quixote called to him and asked him politely whether he would not join
company with them. The traveler accepted the knight's invitation, and
both were soon scrutinizing each other. The gentleman, a man about
fifty years of age, with handsome features, wondered at the strange
appearance of Don Quixote; and when our knight saw his wonder, he told
him why he was so attired and what he had set out to accomplish in the
world. This confession drew forth still more astonishment on the
gentleman's countenance, but he finally found words to ask whether he
could really believe his own ears, for he had thought knight-errantry
extinct. It was not long, however, before he realized that he was
talking to a madman; and then Sancho Panza came under his observation,
and he was deemed a simpleton.

Don Quixote had asked the newcomer's name, and learned it was Don Diego
de Miranda; and then the knight was curious to know what he did with his
life. Whereupon Don Diego proceeded to tell his fellow-travelers of his
tame and godly life in the country with his wife and children; and he
pronounced in the course of his description some very beautiful thoughts
and principles, which so took Sancho's fancy that he jumped off Dapple,
embraced the gentleman's leg, and began to kiss his feet in the most
passionate and ardent way.

Astonished, the good gentleman inquired what all this display meant;
and Sancho begged of him between his transports: "Let me kiss, for I
think your Worship is the first saint in the saddle I ever saw!"

Of course, the gentleman confessed his sinfulness to Sancho, who refused
to change his opinion, in spite of his master's honest laughter. Then the
gentleman told Don Quixote about his great pride, his son, who was
eighteen years old, had been a student at Salamanca, and wrote divine
poems. This immediately inspired Don Quixote to a discourse on poetry, in
which he dwelt on the dishonor of commercializing this great gift of the
gods. He finished his speech with the advice to Don Diego that he bring
up his son to write discourses in which all vice was flayed and all sin
chided and rebuked. Above all, he said, a poet must never let envy or
personal grudge and hatred guide his pen. When the traveler heard Don
Quixote speak in so wise and discerning manner, he was aghast; and he was
entirely at a loss to know how to judge him. He was inclined to think
that what he had taken for madness in him was nothing but eccentricity.

But while Don Quixote was discoursing on poetry, Sancho, on seeing
some shepherds, had fled to beg some ewe milk of them. When his master
had finished his discourse, and the gentleman was silently considering
his madness, Sancho suddenly heard himself called to battle. Having
in his possession his master's helmet, he spurred his donkey to
further increase his efforts toward speed, and when he reached the
valiant knight, he discovered the reason for the call: a cart bedecked
with royal flags approaching on the road.



When Sancho was summoned by his master, he had just bought some curds
from the goatherd, and not knowing what to do with them at such a
moment, he hastily deposited them in his master's helmet. The first
thing Don Quixote did when Sancho had caught up with him, was to
snatch the helmet from him, exclaiming that he had to make ready for
what promised to be an exciting adventure; while all Sancho could see
was the cart with the royal flags, probably carrying some treasure of
the kings. As Sancho stood watching the cart, Don Quixote resolutely
put on the helmet, which he proceeded to press down on his head in
order to make it sit fast; but as he did so, the curds were squeezed,
and the whey began to run down over his face, so that Don Quixote
imagined that he had been taken with softening of the brain.

Sancho said nothing but gave his master something to wipe his face
with, and Don Quixote muttered that if this was sweat he was certain
it was going to be a horrible adventure. As he was drying his face, he
took off his helmet, and when he smelled the curds he turned to Sancho
in great perturbation and accused him of having put them there,
calling him a traitor and a scoundrel, and threatening to thrash him.
But Sancho eyed his master innocently, and blamed it all on the devil
or some enchanter, saying that his master might know that if he had
had curds, he would have put them in his stomach and not in his
master's helmet.

This was a convincing argument to the knight, who now busied himself
with the cart, which had nearly reached them. He called out to the
driver and a man on mule-back, who were the only attendants: "Whither
are you going, brothers? What cart is this? What have you got in it?
What flags are those?"

The man on the mule answered that the cart was his, that he was
transporting a pair of enormous lions as a present from the Governor
of Oran to His Majesty the King; that the flags were those of the
King, and that therefore the property was royal property. He added
that the lions were hungry, since they had not eaten anything that
day, and that he was in great haste to reach a place where he could
feed them.

Here Don Quixote smiled a scornful, superior smile, and calmly told
the keeper of the lions to open the cages and let out the beasts that
they might learn who the courageous Don Quixote of La Mancha might be.
When Sancho heard how mad his master was, he turned in sickly fear to
the traveling gentleman and begged him for God's sake to keep his
master from having a combat with the lions. The gentleman asked Sancho
whether he thought his master would really be so foolish as to do such
a thing; and Sancho's firm and emphatic reply made the gentleman
hasten to the knight's side in an attempt to reason with him. He was
promptly reprimanded by Don Quixote, however, who told him sharply to
mind his own business, and then threatened to pin the keeper to the
cart with his lance if he did not open the cages and chase out the
lions at once.

There was an indescribable consternation and confusion. The driver
pleaded with Don Quixote on his knees, and when they all saw that he
was determined to meet with the lions in combat, they began to pick up
their belongings and run away into safety. Sancho and the gentleman
made still another attempt to bring him to his senses, but all their
pleas were in vain. Sancho left his master with the tears falling down
his cheeks, and Don Quixote ordered the gentleman to speed away on his
flea-bitten mare as fast as he could, if he was afraid to be bitten by
the lions.

Then Don Quixote decided it might be better to fight on foot, as he
was afraid that his Rocinante might be frightened on seeing the
beasts; so, sword in hand, he bravely advanced towards the cage. The
keeper timidly opened the doors of the first cage, and a male lion of
tremendous size, stretching himself leisurely, put his claws through
the opening; then he yawned sleepily, and after some deliberation
began to lick his eyes and face with his long, fierce tongue. Having
thus washed his dirty face, he put his head out of the cage and stood
gazing into space with a ferocious look in his eyes, which resembled
glowing coals. Not even seeming surprised at the sight of the valiant
knight, he then had the audacity to turn his back on our hero, and
calmly and proudly lay down, with his hindquarters under Don Quixote's
very nose.

Such unheard-of scorn angered the knight, who commanded the keeper to
take a stick and poke the beast out of the cage; but here he met with
unyielding obstinacy, for this the man refused to do under any
circumstances, saying that the first one to be chewed to pieces, if he
did that, would be himself. Then he began to praise and flatter Don
Quixote's courage which, he said, by this feat had been unequaled in
the world. His adversary the lion, he said, had proven by his very
action that he considered Don Quixote a superior foe; and when the
keeper promised to give Don Quixote a certificate to the effect that
the lion had been challenged in true knight errant fashion and refused
to give battle, Don Quixote was soothed, and bade the keeper shut the
doors to the cage and recall the fugitives that they might hear from
the keeper's lips the true account of his remarkable achievement.

The first thing Don Quixote did when Sancho had joined him was to
order him to give two gold crowns to the driver and the keeper for
lost time; but before Sancho carried out his master's command he was
anxious to know whether the lions were dead or alive. Whereupon the
keeper related how the valiant knight had single handed dared the
lions to come out of their cage, and how they meekly and cowardly had
refused at the sight of so bold a warrior; and he embellished his
story with numerous little details--in anticipation of the gold
crown--and added that when he returned to Madrid he would not fail to
inform the King of his marvelous exploit.

When Don Quixote heard this, his heart beat faster, and he told the
keeper that if the King should happen to ask who performed this great
deed, to say it was the Knight of the Lions, since he had decided to
adopt this name hereafter.

So the cart proceeded toward the capital, and Don Quixote, Sancho, and
the traveling gentleman went their way. Don Diego bade them make haste
that they might reach his village before nightfall, and he asked Don
Quixote to spend the night at his house and rest after his exertions--an
invitation that the knight accepted with profuse thanks.



The Knight of the Green Coat--which was the name Don Quixote had
conferred on his host--reached his house in the afternoon, and he was
welcomed home by his wife and son, who could not help staring in
amazement at the strange figure Don Quixote presented. The latter
advanced to the wife and kissed her virtuously on the hand, after
having first asked her permission; and she received him courteously,
as did the son also. Then he was escorted into the house, and Sancho
helped him to remove his armor and to wash him clean of the curds,
which had run down his face and his neck. This being done, Don Quixote
joined father and son in another room.

It was not long before Don Lorenzo, the young son, was perplexed by
the knight's behavior and conversation, and at his first opportunity
he confided this perplexity to his father. Don Diego told him that he
himself was at his wit's end, for he had heard him speak as sensibly
as he ever heard any man speak; then again, he said, he had seen him
perform the most unbelievable acts of madness. Don Lorenzo again
engaged in conversation with Don Quixote, who told the young man that
he had already learned from his father of his great talents as a poet.
The youth modestly disclaimed being entitled to be called a great
poet; and the absence of conceit in one of this calling pleased the
knight greatly. And he went on, discoursing on matters pertaining to
education, on universities, and degrees, and his opinions seemed to
Don Lorenzo so authoritative and advanced that he was at a loss to
know what to conclude, until Don Quixote suddenly began to talk about
the science of knight-errantry, which he maintained surpassed all
other sciences.

Don Lorenzo interrupted, of course, saying that he had never heard of
any such science; he had read books of chivalry but had never believed
that any knights had existed, he said. When Don Quixote heard the
youth speak such blasphemy, he prayed that heaven should deliver him
from his false illusions as to the existence of knight-errantry! Just
then dinner was served.

While they were eating, Don Quixote asked Don Lorenzo to repeat some
of his verses to him, and the youth read some of his glosses and
sonnets. Don Quixote was extremely impressed with them, and he praised
the youth's rare gift in eloquent language. This praise--although he
knew it to come from a madman--so pleased Don Lorenzo's father that he
begged Don Quixote to remain; and for four days the knight was
entertained by Don Diego.

Then Don Quixote felt it his duty to break away from luxury and
idleness in order to live up to the laws of knight-errantry, Sancho
left with a sigh, and a tear in his eye, for never in his life had he
lived so well. However, he saw to it that he was well provisioned
before they departed. Don Quixote was anxious to see the poet turn
knight-errant, he said, but since his parents no doubt would not
permit him to give up his chosen work he thought it best not to
attempt to sway them in their convictions. And so he and his squire
took leave with many courtesies, while Don Diego and his family were
pitying the poor demented knight in their hearts and still were
wondering at his nonsense.



They had traveled but a short time when they met some students and
peasants on mule-back, and since they were going in the same direction
Don Quixote offered them his protection if they would only make the
pace of their young mules conform with that of his steed and Dapple.
They agreed to do so, and it was not long ere the Knight of the Lions
had introduced himself to his companions, and told them of his
revival. The students were quick to perceive that he was demented; but
not so the peasants, who could make neither head nor tail of what he
said, and ascribed this to their own ignorance.

The students invited the knight to come with them to a wedding-feast, and
immediately he asked which prince was to be married without his knowing
it. The students informed him that it was not any prince's wedding, but
that of a rich farmer by the name of Camacho, who was marrying the fair
Quiteria, daughter of a rich man in their neighborhood. Quiteria, they
said, was in love with one Basilio, a poor young shepherd, whom her
father had sent away in anger from his house, forbidding him ever to see
his daughter again. As a result of this banishment and his being
separated from his love, he had now gone mad.

Don Quixote, having listened attentively to the students' story, began
a discourse on love and marriage. Now and then Sancho interrupted him
with strings of proverbs; this would infuriate his master by making
him deviate from his subject. Finally Don Quixote retaliated by
attacking and criticising Sancho's language, which he said was

Soon their arguments were taken up by the students. One of them stood
by Sancho; the other one took Don Quixote's point of view. Having once
been involved, they argued first on one subject, then on another,
until at last foils and the art of fencing became the subject. It so
happened that one of them was carrying his foils with him, and he
suggested that they settle their argument then and there. They did so
under Don Quixote's chivalrous supervision, and when the engagement
had come to an end, the one who had challenged was so worn and torn
that Sancho felt sorry for him and went over to console him; at the
same time he felt it his duty to advise him never again to fence,
although he did not advise him against wrestling or throwing the bar,
for he was strong enough for that, he thought. Whereupon the
challenger rose and embraced his adversary, and after that they were
better friends than ever.

They pursued their journey, and before long it grew dark. Soon
afterwards they heard the musicians at the wedding, and saw the
preparations that were being made for it. Here Don Quixote took leave
of the students and the peasants, saying that being a knight-errant,
he was obliged to give up the comfort of a bed, and would go to sleep
in the woods or some lonely field. They did their best to persuade him
to accept their hospitality--aided and abetted by the comfort-loving
Sancho--but all remonstrances were in vain, much to Sancho's regret.



Sancho was still snoring when his master was up and awake the next
morning. After having soliloquized at length before the sleeping
squire, he awoke him by ticking him with his lance. Sancho smelled the
preparations for the wedding-feast, and at once was wide awake. His
master asked him to hasten and come along, and they set off on their
mounts and soon arrived at the place where the wedding was to be
celebrated. They found there an arcade erected and through this they
entered. There was being cooked and prepared enough food to feed every
one in town, and when Sancho saw all the good things, his mouth began
to water, and he could hardly control himself. As a matter of fact, he
soon succumbed to his temptations and he did not have to beg twice,
for the cooks told him that this was a day on which no one was to go
hungry, that being the wish of the rich Camacho, and they even told
him to keep the spoon. So Sancho skimmed all the pots to his heart's

Soon the musicians and dancers arrived, and these performed an
allegorical dance and play, but nothing interested Sancho as much as
the skimmings, to which he returned after having finished an argument
with his master about the relative qualities of Camacho the Rich and
the poor Basilio; Camacho being the better provider, Sancho was
decidedly in favor of him.



Sancho was still eating when suddenly loud exclamations and shouts
were heard; and when he and Don Quixote looked to see what was the
matter, they found that the bride and the bridegroom, accompanied by
the priest and their relatives, were entering the arcade. They
proceeded to a platform, on which they took places, and all noticed
that the bride looked very pale. Scarcely had the bridal party seated
themselves, when a voice was heard from behind them, calling out:
"Wait a little, ye, as inconsiderate as ye are hasty!"

All turned and perceived Basilio, poorly clad, with a crown of cypress
on his head, and carrying a staff in his hand. The staff had a sharp
end, and this he buried deep in the ground; then, pale and trembling,
he turned to the fair Quiteria and accused her of marrying Camacho
because of his wealth, though she knew she loved no one but himself,
Basilio, who was poor, and, therefore, helpless. As he nevertheless
wished them happiness, he would now remove the last obstacle to this

So saying, Basilio pulled from the staff he carried and which served
as a sheath, a rapier, upon which in another instant he had thrown
himself. There he lay on the ground, bleeding profusely, the point of
the blade appearing through his back, when his many friends came
running to give him aid. Don Quixote lifted up his head, and they
found that he was still breathing. Some one suggested that they pull
out the blade, but the priest warned them not to do that before the
poor man had been given the sacrament, as the moment the rapier was
removed, death would follow.

Just then Basilio was heard to say in a weak voice that if he could
only be joined to his beloved one, he would die happy. The priest
cautioned him to think of his soul rather than of his body in these
last moments of his, but Basilio interrupted him stubbornly and said
he would not confess until this had been done. When Don Quixote heard
the dying man implore the priest to carry out his wish, he, too,
besought him, and added that under the circumstances Señor Camacho
could have nothing against marrying a widow of a man who had died so
gallantly and honorably as Basilio. Camacho heard all this, and when
Basilio's friends at the same time entreated him to think of the poor
man's soul, he consented; and as Quiteria, too, was compassionate, the
priest united them as man and wife, gave them his blessing with tears
in his eyes, and hoped that Heaven would receive the soul of the
wedded man.

But the instant the ceremony was at an end, the suicide jumped to his
feet as lightly as a deer. Some began to shout that a miracle had been
performed. But Basilio was honest and confessed that he had played a
trick; and, indeed, it seemed as if the whole thing had been planned
by the two lovers, for Quiteria said that if the marriage was not
valid, she would now confirm it anew. Some of Camacho's friends became
violent and threatened the life of Basilio, but the valiant Don
Quixote did not abandon his new-found friend; he kept them all at a
distance with his lance and his sword.

In the meantime Sancho was guarding a spot that to his mind was the
most important one there, namely where the wine-jars were standing.

When Don Quixote had made himself respected by the followers of the
rich Camacho, he addressed them on the subject of love and war, and
held forth to them that all means to an end in these two games were
justifiable, as long as no disgrace was brought on the object of one's
love. Then he threatened to thrash any one who attempted to separate
whom God now had joined; and they were all awed by his resolute
language, not knowing who he was. Camacho showed that he was of good
mettle, however, for he invited all to remain and have a merry time,
and let the feast go on as if nothing had happened.

But Basilio was proud, and so were his friends, and they preferred to
withdraw to Basilio's village. They were accompanied by Don Quixote,
whom they had invited as a special guest of honor because of his stout
defense of Basilio; and Sancho, of course, had to trail along, much to
his disgust, for he had looked forward to stilling his hunger for days
to come on the remnants of the rich man's wedding-feast. As he was
rocking to and fro in his seat on his faithful Dapple, he was
contemplating with a surly and melancholy countenance a glorious, but
now past day.



Don Quixote and Sancho remained at the home of the newly married
couple for three days. Before the knight took leave of Basilio and
Quiteria, he discoursed at length on love and matrimony: a discourse
that Sancho seemed to take more to heart than they did, for when his
master had finished he was heard muttering that he wished he had had
such advice before marrying his wife.

"Is thy Teresa so bad then, Sancho?" asked Don Quixote.

"She is not very bad," replied the downtrodden squire, "but she is not
very good; at least she is not as good as I could wish."

"Thou dost wrong, Sancho, to speak ill of thy wife," admonished his
master; "for after all she is the mother of thy children."

And to this the squire answered: "We are quits, for she speaks ill of
me whenever she takes it into her head, especially when she is
jealous; and Satan himself could not put up with her then."

Having exchanged these thoughts with his squire, Don Quixote decided
it was time to take to the open again, and he begged one of the
students who had invited him to the wedding to find him a guide to
take him to the cave of Montesinos. The student provided him with a
cousin of his own, a young scholar who was very much interested in
tales of chivalry; and, followed by the earnest prayers of those they
left behind, the three set out for the famous cave.

Don Quixote wanted the scholar to tell him all about himself, and when
he learned, he had had books printed which were inscribed to princes,
he wanted to know what kind of books they were. When he mentioned that
he was writing one now that was to deal with the invention of customs
and things, Sancho became interested and thrust this question at him,
which he answered himself: "Tell me, Señor--and God give you luck in
printing your books!--who was the first man that scratched his head?
For to my thinking it must have been our father Adam."

Glad to have had his supposition corroborated by so great an authority
as an author of books, Sancho was encouraged to ask numerous other
questions of the same caliber; and this helped to make the time seem
short. When night fell they had reached a little village, from where
it was only a very short distance to the cave.

As Don Quixote was intent on discovering the cave's inmost secrets, he
provided himself with a hundred fathoms of rope, and the following
afternoon he was at the cavern, ready for the hazardous undertaking.
Don Quixote was tied to the end of the rope, and all the while Sancho
was admonishing him not to bury himself alive in the bottomless pit,
telling him that he had no business being an explorer anyway. Before
being lowered into the depths, Don Quixote commended himself to his
Lady Dulcinea and sent up a prayer to Heaven on bended knees.

In order to enter the cave, he had to cut his way through the brush, and
as he commenced to swing his sword, a whole city of crows and bats flew
against him and knocked him to the ground. Sancho crossed himself and
kept up his vigilance over his master to the last. Finally he saw him
disappear in the coal-black depths, and then he called on all the saints
he knew by name to protect the flower and cream of knight-errantry, the
dare-devil of the earth, the heart of steel and the arm of brass.

At last Sancho and the scholar had given Don Quixote all the hundred
fathoms of the rope, and then they got no more replies to their calls.
They waited for half an hour, and then they were afraid that the
knight was dead and decided to haul him up, Sancho weeping bitterly
all the while. But when Sancho saw his master coming up, he could not
restrain himself from being hopeful of a miracle, and he called out
gleefully: "Welcome back, Señor, for we had begun to think you were
going to stop there to found a family."

Don Quixote did not move, however, and they laid him on the ground and
found he was fast asleep. When he came to, he was in an exalted state.
He raised his eyes toward Heaven, and asked God to forgive them for
having taken him away from such a glorious and spectacular pleasure.
But Sancho was curious to know what he had seen down there in Hell,
and he interrupted and asked the question.

"Hell!" cried Don Quixote. "Call it by no such name, for it does not
deserve it."

Then he asked for something to eat, and Sancho put before him an
abundance of food, since he said he was very hungry. When he had
eaten, he asked them to sit still and listen to his story.



When he was being hoisted down, Don Quixote said, he had suddenly
landed on a precipice which led to a cave within the cave, large
enough to hold a team of mules and a cart. There, he claimed, he fell
asleep, only to wake and find himself in a beautiful field, from where
he had gone on a regular sightseeing trip, visiting the most wonderful
castles and palaces, and meeting with the most exalted personages.
Among these was no other than the enchanted Montesinos himself. He had
taken Don Quixote into his own palace, built of crystal and alabaster,
and shown him the tomb of his friend Durandarte, who lay there in his
enchantment, with his hairy hand over his heart. Don Quixote had asked
whether it were indeed true that he, Montesinos, had cut out the heart
of his dead friend, as the story had told, and brought it to his
Lady Belerma, and Montesinos had nodded in affirmation.

Suddenly they had heard the poor dead knight moan in the most
heartrending way, and he had asked Montesinos again and again whether
he had done as he had bade him and carried his heart to his Lady
Belerma in France. Montesinos had fallen on his knees and had assured
his cousin with tearful eyes that as soon as he had died he had cut
out his heart with a poniard, dried it with a lace handkerchief as
well as he could, and then departed to see his Lady. At the first
village he had come to in France, he had stopped to sprinkle some salt
on it to keep it fresh, and had given it to the Lady Belerma, who was
now also enchanted in this cave.

Don Quixote continued his tale. The enchanter, the sage Merlin, so
Montesinos had said, had prophesied that he, Don Quixote, reviver of
knight-errantry, was to be the one to disenchant them all. He and
Montesinos had almost come to blows, however, when the latter had
inferred that during her enchantment the Lady Belerma had developed
large circles under her eyes, and that if it had not been for these
her beauty would have surpassed even that of the famous Lady Dulcinea
of El Toboso. But Montesinos was courteous enough to apologize and
acknowledge the truth of the proverb which says that comparisons are

Sancho and the young author of books had some difficulty in persuading
themselves that all these things had happened in so short a time, for
Don Quixote had only been gone about an hour; but Don Quixote, hearing
this, insisted that he had been absent three days and three nights.
Then he proceeded to tell how he had felt no hunger whatever, that
none down there ever ate, and that the enchanted never slept; he
admitted, however, that their nails, hair, and beards grew.

When Sancho heard all this he asked to be forgiven by God for saying
he thought his master was lying, but the next moment he had retracted
it, and when his master asked what he really meant, he said he did not

There was one thing that had happened to our knight in the cave,
which caused him infinite pain; he had met one of the enchanted
ladies-in-waiting to his Lady Dulcinea, and she had told him in
confidence that his beloved one wanted to borrow six reals on a
petticoat which she had bought. He gave her all that he had,
which amounted to only four reals, and she gave him in exchange
her lady's blessing, saying that with it went many kisses. As
she left him, he said, she had cut a caper and had sprung fully
two yards into the air.

"O blessed God," cried Sancho, "is it possible that enchantments can
have such power as to have changed my master's right senses into a
craze so full of absurdity? O Señor, Señor, consider yourself! Have a
care for your honor, and give no credit to this silly stuff that has
left you scant and short of wits."

"Thou talkest in this way because thou lovest me, Sancho," said Don
Quixote; and he ascribed his squire's incredulity to a lack of
knowledge of the world and assured him that when the time came he
would tell him even more that took place in the cave, which would
make him believe what he now doubted.



The scholar was surprised that Don Quixote permitted his servant to talk
to him in this way, but ascribed his lenience to the good mood he was in.
After having whiled away still another hour talking pleasantly, they
proceeded to find a place where they might spend the night. The scholar
knew of a hermitage not very far off; and on their way there they
encountered a man with a mule that was loaded with halberds and lances.
Don Quixote was curious to know where he was taking the weapons, but the
man answered that he was in great haste to reach the inn beyond the
hermitage. He would spend the night at this inn, he said, and if they
happened to be there too, he would tell them some things that were both
interesting and curious. Don Quixote was so inquisitive that he decided
to pass by the hermitage and go to the inn instead.

Just before coming to the inn, they met a happy looking lad of
eighteen or nineteen, who carried a sword over his shoulder and a
bundle on his back. Don Quixote stopped him and asked where he was
going; and the lad replied that he was going to war for his king. He
told the knight how he had been in the service of office-seekers and
adventurers in Madrid until he had tired of such a life; and this
pleased Don Quixote so much that he invited him to sit behind him on
Rocinante and ride with him to the inn to sup with him. But the page,
seeing the leanness of the knight's steed, said he preferred to walk,
though he was glad to accept the invitation for supper.

As soon as they had arrived at the inn, Don Quixote asked the landlord
for the man with the lances and halberds; and Sancho was happy to know
that his master took this inn for an inn and not for an enchanted



Don Quixote found the man with the arms feeding his mule in the
stable, and he asked the knight to accompany him to a quiet nook when
he had finished this duty to his beast. But Don Quixote's curiosity
knew no bounds, and he offered to help him sift the barley so that he
might begin his story at once. Being a good-natured fellow, the man
acquiesced. He related how a magistrate in his village, which was four
leagues and a half away, had lost a donkey through the carelessness of
a servant. Some weeks later another magistrate of the same village
was hunting in the woods, and when he returned he brought word to his
fellow officer that he had come across the lost beast but that he was
now so wild that no one could approach him. He suggested, however,
that they go together in search for him; and they developed a plan
whereby they thought they should surely be able to capture the animal.
Both of them were expert in braying, and they decided to place
themselves at different ends of the forest, each one braying at
intervals. In this way they thought they should be able to round up
the donkey, for they were certain that he would answer their calls.

But it so happened that both of them brayed at the same time, and when
they ran to look, convinced that the donkey had turned up, they found
not the ass but only each other, so naturally had they brayed. They
tried the same scheme again and again, but every time with the same
result; and at last they came in this way to a place in the woods
where they found the dead donkey devoured by wolves.

The story of the two magistrates going about in the forest braying to
each other like asses soon spread to the villages in the county; and
in one village in particular the habit of braying whenever they
observed any one from the village of the braying magistrates took such
root that it was decided to teach them a lesson by taking arms against
them. The arms he carried with him now, he said, were to be used
against these scoffers, that they might never again behave like asses.

He had just finished his story when some one entered and cried out
that the show of _The Release of Melisendra_ and the divining ape
were coming to the inn, and a minute later Master Pedro himself came
into the yard, where he was greeted by the landlord and all the
guests. Master Pedro's one eye was covered by a piece of green silk;
Don Quixote judged by this that something had befallen him by
accident. He asked the landlord to tell him all he knew of Master
Pedro, and he learned that he traveled with his puppet-show from town
to town, and was greatly renowned throughout the provinces as a
showman. And the ape, the innkeeper said, was like a human being, so
clever was he, and wise.

Soon the show was in readiness inside, and every one gathered around
Master Pedro and his divining ape. Don Quixote and Sancho were eager
to have their fortunes told, and both offered their reals at the same
time; but Master Pedro refused to take any money until the ape had
rendered satisfactory service.

The ape jumped up on his master's shoulder, and began to chatter his
teeth as if he were saying something, all the while keeping his mouth
close to Master Pedro's ear. When he had been chattering long enough
to please himself, he jumped down just as quickly as he had jumped up.
The next instant Don Quixote and Sancho were both frightened and awed
by the showman's suddenly throwing himself before Don Quixote's feet
and embracing his legs, while he exclaimed: "These legs do I embrace
as I would embrace the two pillars of Hercules, O illustrious reviver
of knight-errantry, O prop of the tottering, so long consigned to
oblivion!" But not only were the knight and the squire aghast; the
landlord and the guests were as startled as they were, for they had
never seen Master Pedro act like that before.

But the showman had not finished, for in the next moment he lay at the
feet of Sancho, to whom the divining ape brought cheer from his
Teresa, saying that she was just soothing her feelings by indulging in
wine from a pitcher which she was holding in her left hand and that
had a broken spout.

Don Quixote was not very well pleased with this exhibition, for he
thought it decidedly out of place that an ape should know more than he
or any other human being; and he confided to Sancho that the ape was
possessed by the devil. He brought Sancho to a dark corner in the
stable where he was sure no one could overhear them, and told him
there that he was convinced Master Pedro had made a bargain with the
devil to get rich through the ape, and then sell him his soul, and he
said it surprised him beyond words that the Holy Office had not
already interfered with this dastardly scheme.

At this point Master Pedro came in search of Don Quixote, as the show
was about to begin. Before entering the inn, however, Sancho entreated
his master to ask the ape whether what he saw in the cave of
Montesinos was true. Don Quixote did so, and the ape answered that
some of it was true, some of it was not; and immediately Sancho
scornfully broke in and said that he had told him so already. The ape
intimated that by next Friday he should be able to tell more about the
adventure; his mind was tired now.

They entered and found the stage set for the performance; the tapers
of wax were lit, it was a bright and beautiful scene. Master Pedro
disappeared and took his place behind the scenes, for he was the one
who created the life in the puppets. A lad who acted as interpreter,
calling out the scenes and describing the action of the play, placed
himself outside the theater. Don Quixote, Sancho, the page, and the
scholar seated themselves in the front row; and the show began.



The play, which depicted how Melisendra was released by her husband,
Señor Don Gaiferos, from the hands of the Moors in the city of
Sansueña, now called Saragossa, had only proceeded a short way when
Don Quixote became impatient with the young man who was making the
explanations to the audience. The knight thought he drifted into
unnecessary and superfluous language, and was quick to reprimand him.
The show was continued, and again Don Quixote broke in, criticising
some of the stage effects: bells were never used by the Moors, only
kettledrums, he said. But here Master Pedro begged him not to be so
particular, pleading that the show was given for the sake of

Don Quixote acceded, and the show began again.

But it was not long before a number of horsemen were galloping across the
stage in pursuit of the two lovers. Their escape was accompanied by such
blowing of horns and trumpets and beating of drums, that the noise and
din of it all were too much for the poor knight's imagination which was
now stirred to such a pitch that he believed himself in the midst of a
real battle. He drew his sword and plunged against the Moorish horseman
with such vehemence and force, cutting and slashing in all directions,
that every one in the room was aghast at his madness, and ran to hide in
safety. Master Pedro came within an inch of having his ear, not to say
his whole head, cut off, and Don Quixote's fury was not at an end until
he had decapitated all the Moorish pasteboard figures. Lucky it was that
no blood could flow from them, or there would have been a plentiful
stream of it. The ape took refuge on the roof, frightened out of his poor
wits, and even Sancho Panza was more than ordinarily shaken with fear,
for he admitted that he had never seen his master so wrought up.

When Don Quixote was certain of complete victory--in other words,
destruction--he turned and addressed those who had dared to return
after the storm: "I wish I had here before me now all those who do not
or will not believe how useful knights errant are in the world. Just
think, if I had not been here present, what would have become of the
brave Don Gaiferos and the fair Melisendra!"

But Master Pedro was lamenting the loss of all his emperors and kings
and knights and horses, and Sancho was so touched by what he said it
would cost him to buy a new show, that he pleaded with his master to
make restitution; and, although Don Quixote could not see that he had
done any wrong, he generously ordered his squire to pay Master Pedro
the sum of forty reals and three quarters, the landlord having duly
functioned as arbiter and agreed that that was a fair price for the
damage done to the figures. Besides this amount, Master Pedro was
allotted two reals for his trouble in catching the ape.

While they were summing up, Don Quixote, however, had only one thought
in his mind. He was wondering whether Melisendra and her husband had
reached safety by this time: so possessed was he of his infernal
imagination. Master Pedro promised him that as soon as he had caught
his ape, he would put the question to him; and the showman began to
worry about his African companion, hoping that he would soon be
hungry, for then he would know whether he was still alive.

The rest of the evening was passed in peace, and drinking at Don
Quixote's expense, and soon it was morning, and the man with the
halberds took his departure. The scholar and the page left, too, and
Don Quixote generously gave the page twelve reals. But the first one
to depart was the showman: he was afraid that the knight might have
another outbreak, and he had no desire to experience it twice, and
perhaps lose his ape, which he had now caught.

The landlord was extremely pleased with Don Quixote's generosity, and
was sorry to see him depart; but his madness he could make neither
head nor tail of, for he had never seen any one thus afflicted.



It was no doubt a good thing for Master Pedro of the puppet-show that
neither Sancho nor Don Quixote recognized in him the thief who stole
the squire's donkey, when he was asleep; for he it was. None other
than the galley-slave Gines de Pasamonte, or Don Ginesillo de
Paropilla, as Don Quixote would have it. It was in the guise of a
showman, with only one eye and a part of his face visible, that he
found it an easy matter to evade being caught by the servants of the
law, who had been hunting for him ever since he was liberated through
the generosity and bravery of Don Quixote. The ape he had bought from
some captives who had returned from Barbary; and he had soon taught
him the tricks which made people think he was really divining things.
Before entering a village the clever galley-slave would learn all he
could about its inhabitants; and being blessed with a remarkable
memory, he seldom had any difficulty in making the ape's feat seem
impressive to the masses.

Now, when Don Quixote left the inn, it suddenly occurred to him that
he ought to visit the banks of the Ebro before steering towards
Saragossa. So he kept on the road for two days, and on the third day
as he was mounting a hill he was suddenly aroused by hearing a
tremendous din of drums, mixed with the sound of trumpets and
musket-shots. In as few instants as it took to make his charger ascend
to the top of the hill, he was there; and he saw several hundred men,
armed with weapons of every imaginable sort. There were flags, of
various descriptions, and among them one in particular attracted his
attention: it was a large standard in white, on which was painted a
donkey, and also an inscription, reading thus:

                 They did not bray in vain,
                    Our alcaldes twain.

This made Don Quixote believe the warriors must be from the braying
town, and he remarked to Sancho that the man to whom they had talked
at the inn must have been misinformed, for evidently the two had not
been magistrates but alcaldes, according to the sign. To this Sancho
replied that having once been a magistrate should not exclude any one
from becoming an alcalde; besides, somebody must have brayed, and
whether it was an alcalde or a magistrate mattered little, he thought.
Don Quixote, however, was in a quandary as to what to do that he might
best live up to the laws of knight-errantry.

He finally went to the braying ones, and, having begged their leave to
address them, he began a stirring discourse on war and peace that
lasted a considerable time. He flayed those who would go into battle
for trifling matters; but just when he seemed to be about to win the
braying ones over to his way of thinking, he had to pause for breath.

Sancho thought it his duty to interrupt the silence and take up the
broken thread here, so he continued in his own way, keeping more or
less to the same subject. He started in by praising his master--the
Knight of the Lions!--his bravery, his generosity, his knowledge of
Latin (which Sancho unfortunately did not understand), and all his
other virtues, and suddenly he bellowed out that they were fools to
take offense at hearing some one bray. Then he became reminiscent and
related how he as a boy used to like to go about braying, and told how
envious every one in his village was because of his great gift in that
direction. "Wait a bit and listen!" said he. "I'll show you!" And
before his master had a chance to stop him, he had pinched his nose
and brayed--had brayed such a bray that all the valleys and dales gave

When some of the men heard the braying they thought he had come there
to mock them, and they set upon him with such fury and force that Don
Quixote, though he did his best to defend him, had to spur Rocinante
into retreat, in order to save his own life. But Sancho was both
stoned and pummeled into insensibility, and then he was put on his
donkey and tied there; and when he came to, he had to put his trust in
Dapple, who was forced to smell his way back to Rocinante.

The braying troops remained in the field until evening, but since no
opposing army appeared, they returned to their village after dark.



When Dapple reached his faithful playmate, Rocinante, Sancho fell from
his back and rolled at his master's feet. There he lay; but Don
Quixote was angry and showed no compassion.

"In an evil hour didst thou take to braying, Sancho! Where hast thou
learned that it is well done to mention the rope in the house of the
man that has been hanged? To the music of brays what harmonies couldst
thou expect to get but cudgels?"

Having thus reprimanded his squire, the good knight looked to his
wounds, which Sancho complained of, but found him only discolored.

"I feel as if I was speaking through my shoulders," wailed Sancho; and
then he begged his master to hasten away from such evil premises. Of
course, he also had to say something scornful about Don Quixote's
having abandoned him in the heat of battle; but the knight begged him
to consider that there was a difference between flying and retiring.

Don Quixote succeeded in making Sancho mount and remain on the donkey's
back, and then they set off toward a grove which they sighted in the
distance. Sancho's back pained him fearfully, but he was much relieved
when he learned from his master--who had seen the accident--that it was
caused by his having been smitten by a man armed with a staff. The cause
being removed as it were, Sancho was jubilant, although his heart and
courage fell as soon as he, in the course of his usual chattering,
touched upon the subject of knight-errantry. While bewailing his fate, he
forgot his pain; therefore Don Quixote was generous and Christian enough
to beg him to keep on talking to himself. Sancho suddenly was reminded of
his island, and in turn reminded his master of his promise concerning it.

This impertinence was rewarded by the knight's demanding of him:
"Well, how long is it, Sancho, since I promised thee an island?"

And Sancho retorted innocently: "If I remember rightly, it must be
over twenty years, three days more or less."

Don Quixote then had to laugh, for it would have been ridiculous not
to do so. His wrath was aroused, however, when Sancho again showed his
covetousness--his one really great failing, Don Quixote thought--and
he told him to keep all the money he had, and betake himself back to
his Teresa.

Sancho was moved to tears by his master's wrath, and he confessed in a
broken voice that if he had only had a tail he would have been a
complete ass himself. But, he said, if his master should care to
attach one to him, he would willingly wear one, and serve him all his
life as an ass. Then he asked on bended knees to be forgiven, saying
that if he talked much it was less from malice than from ignorance,
and finished up his harangue with a proverb that had nothing whatever
to do with the rest of his discourse.

So Don Quixote forgave his squire, and by that time they had reached
the grove, and they spent the night there under the trees: Don Quixote
in soliloquies and meditation, Sancho in pain and restlessness. In the
morning they continued on their way to find the river Ebro.



It took them two days to reach the river. The very first thing that
struck the knight's eye when he got there, was a boat without oars,
tied to a tree. Immediately Don Quixote insisted that the boat had
been sent by magic to fetch him to some great knight or other person
in need of his help; and all Sancho's contradictions were fruitless.

Finally the proverb, "Do as thy master bids thee, and sit down to
table with him," had its effect on Sancho, and, although certain he
was about to give up his life, he tied the beasts to a tree on the
bank, and seated himself in the boat, trembling like a leaf. Then the
knight cut the rope, and they started to drift out into the stream,
while Dapple was braying and Rocinante was trying to break away and
plunge in after them. Seeing this, Sancho began to weep convulsively,
but his master had no patience with him, and told him to control

Soon they had reached midstream, and Don Quixote, much to Sancho's
perplexity, began to talk about cosmography, the three hundred and
sixty degrees of the globe, and the equinoctial line, which, the
knight said, they were just then passing. A sure sign by which all
seafaring Spaniards determined the passing of this latitude, Don
Quixote went on, was that all lice died on everybody on board ship.
So, in accordance with this custom, he asked his squire to take the
test. Sancho let his hand creep stealthily into the hollow of his left
knee, and he promptly told his master that either was the test not to
be relied upon, or they had not passed the line that had just been
mentioned by name.

"Why, how so?" asked Don Quixote; "hast thou come upon aught?"

"Ay, and aughts," replied Sancho, and in replying he let the stream
wash his fingers.

Just then they came in view of some large floating mills, moored in
midstream. At once Don Quixote became excited, crying to Sancho that
there must be some fair princess or high-born lady in captivity in
this castle.

Sancho did his best to make his master believe they were not castles
but only mills that ground corn; but to no avail. Don Quixote insisted
that either his squire or the mills were enchanted. They came closer
and closer to them, and soon shouts were heard from some of the
millers, who realized the danger of the boat's being upset by the
suction of the water, and dragged into the mill wheels.

The men quickly got hold of some sticks and poles, and tried to stave
off the boat, and when Don Quixote saw their white, flour-covered
faces he turned to Sancho and begged him to take a good look at the
monsters that had been sent to oppose him. The men were all the time
crying out, unable to fathom such dare-deviltry or folly: "Devils of
men, where are you going to? Are you mad? Do you want to drown
yourselves, or dash yourselves to pieces among these wheels?"

In reply to these well-meant exclamations, Don Quixote stood up in the
boat and began to swing his sword in a ferocious manner, calling them
evil rabble, and demanding that they set free the princess who was
imprisoned in the fortress; while Sancho said all the prayers he could
think of, crawling on the bottom of the swaying boat, which was now
close to the rushing water.

At last the millers caught the boat with their hooks, but in so doing
Don Quixote and his squire both fell into the river. Don Quixote in
his heavy armor made two trips to the bottom, but both he and Sancho
were rescued, thanks to the devils in white. As soon as they had come
ashore, Sancho sank upon his knees and thanked the Lord for having
been saved from such a death as that from drinking too much water, and
prayed that he should be delivered from all future temptations to risk
his life in any more foolish causes.

As this moment the fishermen who owned the boat came running up,
claiming damages for the wrecked craft, and after having failed to
strike a bargain with this rabble for the delivery of the enchanted
fair maiden in the castle, Don Quixote, wearied by their stupidity,
paid them fifty reals for the boat, exclaiming: "God help us, this
world is all machinations and schemes at cross purposes one with the
other! I can do no more." Then, turning toward the water mills, he
burst out into lamentations, confessing to the imagined captive
princess his inability to set her free at this time; while the
fishermen stood by, wondering what it was all about.

Having ceased his lamentations, Don Quixote and Sancho joined their
faithful beasts, and set out to find new adventures.



Sancho left the river Ebro with no regrets, except for the fifty reals
just paid to the fishermen. He was seriously considering in his own
mind the foolishness of remaining a squire to such a mad master as
his. But late the following afternoon they approached a field, and
suddenly Don Quixote discovered in the distance a number of people,
and as they came closer they found it was a hawking party.

Seeing in the party a lady with a hawk on her left hand, and dressed
so richly that Sancho said he had never seen anything so fine in his
life, Don Quixote decided that she must be some lady of great
distinction. Therefore he dispatched his squire with a message to her,
asking her for permission to kiss her hand in person. He instructed
Sancho to be particularly careful not to dispense any of his proverbs
to the lady; but Sancho said he could do without this warning, for had
he not carried messages before to the exalted Dulcinea, the highest
lady of them all?

Soon Don Quixote saw his squire kneeling before the lady. Having given
her his life's history and told her his name, Sancho proceeded with
the message of his master, the valiant Knight of the Lions, formerly
the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, explicitly explaining his
master's modest desire. The lady, who was no other than a duchess, at
once was interested, as she had read and laughed over the first volume
of "The Ingenious Gentleman, Don Quixote of La Mancha"; and she
immediately asked Sancho to return to his master and say that she
would be delighted beyond words to have the worthy knight and his
squire come and be her and the Duke's guests at a country place they
had there.

Sancho was so flattered that the Duchess had recognized him from
having read the book, and so pleased with the reception she had given
him, as well as so taken by her great charm and beauty that he could
not get back to his master quickly enough to tell him the good news.
With his best manner and bearing Don Quixote, attended by his faithful
one, rode into the presence of the august lady, and kissed her hand.

But while Sancho was on his way to his master with the Duchess'
message, she had sent for the Duke, and they had arranged, both being
gifted with a remarkable sense of humor, to receive and entertain the
hero in true knight-errant fashion. Having read all the tales of
chivalry, they knew exactly what to do.

Don Quixote was about to dismount, when he had kissed the Duchess'
hand; and Sancho, as was his custom, wanted to get off Dapple in a
hurry and hold his stirrup, as soon as he perceived his master's
intention. But luck would have it that one of his legs caught in the
trappings, and he fell head first towards the ground. There the poor
squire hung, unable to get up or down, caught by the foot. Now, when
Don Quixote, his eyes fixedly and courteously on the Duchess, thought
that his squire was there with the stirrup, he pressed downward with
all his weight, and knight and saddle both flew high in the air off
Rocinante. When Don Quixote had reached earth, he lay there, writhing
in pain and cursing and swearing at his stupid squire, who was still
hanging by his foot.

The Duke and the Duchess, unable to constrain themselves at the
amusing scene, finally were able through their laughter to order their
huntsmen to their help; and, limping, the knight advanced to do homage
to the Duke and his consort on his damaged knees. The Duke, however,
nobly refused such honor, and instead, embraced the knight. He then
regretted in a few well chosen words the knight's accident; but Don
Quixote replied with an exalted speech, saying that if he had fallen
to the depths of the bottomless pit, the glory of having seen such a
noble and worthy pair would have lifted him up. Then, of course, he
said something uncomplimentary about his squire, who did not know how
to tighten the girths of a saddle, although he could not help giving
him credit for having a loose tongue.

But when the knight began to praise the beauty of the Duchess, the
Duke asked him courteously whether there were not others to praise,
as, for instance, his own Lady Dulcinea. At this Don Quixote offered
the Duchess his services for a few days, together with those of his
squire, Sancho Panza, whom he now took pity on and praised as being
the drollest squire in the world. Whereupon the Duchess flattered
Sancho, saying that if he were droll, she was sure he was shrewd as
well; but Don Quixote broke in and added that he was talkative. When
the knight, having heard himself addressed as the Knight of the Rueful
Countenance, begged to correct it to the Knight of the Lions, the Duke
asked him to relate the episode that thus changed his title. And then
he invited all to come to the castle to be present at a reception that
he would give to their great and distinguished guest.

With the Duchess in the middle, flanked by Don Quixote and the Duke,
the whole company headed for the castle; but it was not long before
the Duchess found her desire for conversation with the droll and
amusing Sancho irresistible. As soon as the Duchess' wish was made
known to him, the squire eagerly wedged his way between the horses and
chattered his way into the lady's good graces.



The reception tendered Don Quixote was arranged in true knight-errant
fashion by the Duke, who had ridden ahead and given full instructions
to the servants. So when Don Quixote arrived, he received a welcome
that surpassed anything he had ever read or dreamt of.

The staircases and the galleries of the court were lined with
servants, who greeted him with the exclamation: "Welcome, flower and
cream of knight-errantry!" At the same time they cast pellets with
scented water over him.

Sancho was taken aback at the sight of all this glory. He had followed
the Duchess, but once in the castle, the absence of his Dapple made
him feel worried. So he turned to one of the duennas, a dignified
woman, named Doña Rodriguez de Grijalba, and asked her whether she
would not favor him by going outside and seeing that his poor little
Dapple was well taken care of. Doña Rodriguez was greatly incensed at
his ordering a duenna of the ducal household to do things of that
sort, and called him a garlic-stuffed scoundrel. Don Quixote,
overhearing their conversation, reprimanded his misbehaving servant,
and Sancho blamed it all on his love for his donkey.

After this, Don Quixote was escorted into a hall the walls of which
were covered with cloth of gold and rich tapestries, and here he was
stripped of his armor by six fair damsels. These maidens could
scarcely control their laughter when they saw him stand there, thin,
emaciated, tall and bony, dressed in his chamois doublet and
tight-fitting breeches. They begged him to permit them to put a clean
shirt on him, but that he refused with many assurances of his modesty,
asking them instead to give it to Sancho. The two were taken to a
room, where Don Quixote, alone with his squire, undressed and put on
the shirt, while he gave Sancho admonitions galore, as to how to
behave, begging him never again to have any quarrels with any
duennas, for that only tended to lessen the respect for the master,
who was always judged by his squire's behavior and actions.

Then Don Quixote returned to the hall, where he was attired in a rich
baldric and a scarlet mantle, with a sword and a gorgeous montera of
green satin. As he passed through the halls and chambers on his way to
the state dining room, he was escorted by the seneschal and twelve
pages; and the sides of each room, as well as the aisles, were lined
with servants in pompous liveries.

Only four covers were laid. Besides Don Quixote and his noble hosts
the confessor of the ducal household, a cold and austere churchman,
occupied a seat at the heavily laden table, to which our knight was
ushered ceremoniously by the Duke himself. But the dinner had not even
begun when Sancho unloosened his tongue and began with his proverbs,
much to the distress and mortification of his master, although to the
great enjoyment of the Duchess. Sancho had been standing by Don
Quixote, staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at everything that was
taking place, for he had never in his life seen anything so sumptuous
and ceremonious. The exchange of courtesies between the Duke and our
Knight, when the latter finally was induced to accept the seat of
honor at the head of the table, impressed the squire considerably; and
it was then he thought the time ripe for the introduction of a story
about this matter of seats. The Duchess told him by all means to let
them hear it, and he began, telling it in the most roundabout way,
with twists and curves, and expeditions here and there to places and
matters that had as much to do with the story as had the proverbs
that he stuffed it with.

Don Quixote was beside himself, and the confessor interrupted the poor
squire impatiently again and again; but on he went. All the while the
Duchess was laughing so heartily that she could scarcely sit up
straight in the chair. And while the Duke engaged himself with Don
Quixote, she carried on a confidential conversation with Sancho, who
told her how he had tricked his master into believing that his Lady
Dulcinea was enchanted, saying she was as much enchanted as his

When the confessor heard the sacrilegious conversation the Duchess was
having with Sancho, discussing giants and enchantments, he severely
reprimanded her and warned her that she would have to answer to God
for whatever this man did and said. Then, addressing the Duke, whom he
had forbidden to read the book about Don Quixote's adventures, he
said: "This Don Simpleton, or whatever his name is, cannot be such a
blockhead as your Excellency would have him, holding out encouragement
to him to go on with his vagaries and follies." And then he turned to
Don Quixote and told him to be on his way, and go home and bring up
his children, if he had any; and he called him a numbskull, and other
names, and a fool for believing that there were knights-errant in the
world and Dulcineas and other such silly things.

Don Quixote sat still and never moved a muscle while the churchman was
speaking, but as soon as he had said all he had to say, he sprang up
from his seat, trembling in his whole body, his face contorted with



Had Don Quixote not been where he was and had the man who thus
assailed him not been of the church, it is safe to say that Don
Quixote would have made his defamer retract his words at the point of
his sword. But instead he calmed himself, and began a long discourse
on the virtues of knight-errantry, finishing it with an avowal of his
intentions which, he swore, were to do good to all and evil to none.
As for his deserving to be called a fool, he would leave that to the
judgment of the Duke and the Duchess. But their worships never got a
chance to utter a word before Sancho broke in with the most stupendous
praise of his master's speech.

The churchman wanted to know whether he was the Sancho Panza of the
book he had seen in print, to which Sancho replied that he most
certainly was, and corroborated it with a string of proverbs, ending
his long-winded reply to the confessor's question with a wish for long
life for his master and himself, saying that neither one of them would
be in any want of empires or islands to rule. Whereupon the Duke at
once said he conferred upon Sancho this very moment the government of
one of his islands; and hearing this Don Quixote whispered to
Sancho--who could not believe his own ears--to go down on his knees
and thank the Duke for his kindness.

The ecclesiastic could stand this impudence no longer, and he rose
from his seat and left the room in disgust and ill-temper. The Duke
wanted to call him back, but he was in such hysterics from hearing
Sancho's proverbial nonsense that he could not speak. After the
churchman's departure Don Quixote again took to discoursing, and
delivered a tirade on the subject of giving and taking offense,
comparing the confessor's rebuke to the offense of a woman, whose only
weapon was her tongue and who therefore could not be punished by the
sword. They marveled at his knowledge and at the quality of his
language, however amusing he himself appeared; but it was Sancho who
particularly took their fancy, for the ducal pair thought they had
never met any one quite so amusing and droll in all their life. And
when Don Quixote had ended his discourse, Sancho himself burst out
regarding the priest: "By my faith, I am certain if Reinaldos of
Montalvan had heard the little man's words, he would have given him
such a spank on the mouth that he would not have spoken for the next
three years."

The dinner was now over, and four maidens entered: one carrying a
silver basin, another one a jug, also of silver, a third one towels,
while the fourth had her sleeves rolled up, and, approaching Don
Quixote, began to soap his face and beard. Don Quixote thought this
must be a custom after all ducal meals, so he submitted in amazement
and stretched out his legs comfortably, that he should not appear out
of place in such surroundings. When his face was all lathered, the
barber maiden pretended there was no more water in the jug; and by
this time the lather had worked its way into the knight's eyes, and he
sat there making the most fierce and ludicrous faces until the water
finally arrived. Then the Duke, in order that Don Quixote should have
no suspicions, ordered the maiden to wash his face and beard as well.
But the one who really was crying for and needing such a washing was
Sancho. He at last got up sufficient courage to ask the Duchess that
he might share in the ceremony, and she promised him that if necessary
the maidens would even put him in the bathtub. This kind offer Sancho
declined--with many thanks, however--saying he would be just as
grateful for having only his beard washed.

While Sancho went with the seneschal to have this attended to, Don
Quixote lingered at the table with the Duke and the Duchess. The
latter was anxious to have the hero tell her something about his Lady
Dulcinea; and Don Quixote became reminiscent and began to sigh,
telling her in exalted and flowery language of his great platonic love
for this lady, who was now enchanted by some evil sage. When the
Duchess asked Don Quixote if it were true that she was only an
imaginary figure, he replied meekly that there was a good deal to be
said on that point; still, he thought, one must not go to extreme
lengths in asking for proof. They discussed many other things, not
forgetting Sancho, whom his master praised for his drollery and
criticised for being a booby.

Suddenly a great noise was heard and the next moment Sancho burst
into the room trembling with rage. He was followed by some of the
servants in the kitchen. Round his neck was a straining cloth, and
dirty lather was splashed in various places over his person. He
presented an appearance that at once made the Duchess scream with
laughter. He proceeded to tell how he had been set upon by the
kitchen-boy, who had been appointed barber by the rest, and how the
lad had attempted to lather his face with kitchen soap and dishwater,
applied with a scrubbing-brush. Don Quixote thought it best here to
make the servants understand that he would tolerate no such jokes on
his squire, so he addressed them in severe fashion and then ordered
them back to the kitchen, with the Duchess' kind consent.

When the servants had left Sancho thought it a duty to himself and his
master--in order to uphold their mutual dignity and for the sake of
freeing himself from any untoward suspicion--to speak on his own
behalf: "Let them bring a comb here and curry this beard of mine, and
if they get anything out of it that offends against cleanliness, let
them clip me to the skin." And when the Duchess had acknowledged her
faith in Sancho and his virtues, the poor squire's happiness knew no
bounds. He offered to serve her for the rest of his life. He wished
that he might soon be dubbed a knight that he might carry out his
desire on that point. She thanked him for expressing such a friendly
feeling for her, and told him that she could plainly judge by his
courteous offer to her that he had been reared in no other school than
that of the great knight Don Quixote of La Mancha. And she assured
him that the Duke would not forget the island he had promised him: she
would see to that.

Don Quixote was now feeling the necessity for his mid-day nap, and
begged to be permitted to retire. Sancho wanted to do the same, and
remarked to the Duchess that he usually slept about four or five hours
in the middle of a warm summer day; but upon her earnest request he
promised her to try to wake up after an hour and come and visit with
her and her duennas.



As soon as Sancho had eaten his dinner, he decided to have no sleep
that afternoon, but to hasten to the Duchess' chambers that he might
talk to her the whole afternoon. The Duchess asked him innumerable
questions about his master and the Lady Dulcinea, and about Teresa
Panza and every one concerned in the book about Don Quixote; and
Sancho managed to keep the Duchess and her duennas in an uncommonly
good humor for the rest of the day. They soon drifted to Sancho's
government, and the squire expressed the belief that perhaps after a
fortnight he would be as well versed in the affairs of government as
he was in the farm labor he had been doing all his life.

"Let them only put me into this government and they will see wonders,"
he said; "for one who has been a good squire will be a good governor."

And then he took leave of the high lady, who suggested that he go home
and sleep for the rest of the afternoon. He promised that he would,
and entreated her to see to it that good care was taken of his Dapple.
When he had explained to the Duchess that Dapple was his faithful
donkey, and told her of the incident with Doña Rodriguez, she assured
him that Dapple would want for nothing in her stable. She suggested
that when he had his government in hand, he ought to pension Dapple
off and let him quit working; and Sancho thought that was by no means
a bad idea, for, he said, he would not be the first ass to be so

The Duchess, when he had left, hastened to tell the Duke of her
amusing conversation with Sancho; and again they put their heads
together, trying to invent new ways and plots whereby they might
derive amusement from the presence of Don Quixote and his squire.



When the Duke and the Duchess had hit upon a plan they proceeded to
make preparations for its being carried out, and on the sixth day they
invited Don Quixote to go hunting with them. There was an array of
huntsmen and beaters, as great a retinue as the Duke could possibly
get together. Both Don Quixote and his squire had been presented with
splendid hunting suits; but Don Quixote did not accept his, saying
that he would soon have to return to the hard pursuits of his calling,
and that it would only be a burden to carry it along.

Sancho did not know that his beautiful suit was destined to be torn
that very day. A wild boar came along, and Sancho deserted his Dapple
and climbed quickly up into the tallest tree he could find; but fate
would have it that the branch gave way, and Sancho fell onto a branch
below, where he hung suspended by a great rent in his breeches,
screaming with all his might that he would be devoured by the boar;
but the boar fell in the next moment, pierced by many spears, and
Sancho was helped to the ground by his master.

The boar was taken to some tents nearby, where dinner soon was ready
and being served for the hunters. Sancho could not refrain then from
showing the Duchess what had befallen him in the tree-top, expressing
to her his opinion of hunts of that kind, involving so much risk. Much
better, he thought, it would be to hunt hares and other little
animals. And then he went on at a tremendous speed, repeating proverb
after proverb, one minute telling the Duchess how he would govern his
island, and the next minute talking about something in his home

Night fell as they were talking. It was a very dark night, which
helped to make the Duke's plan seem more likely of success. They had
all left the tents and gone into the wood, when suddenly it seemed as
if the whole space was afire in one blazing red mass of flames; then
there came the sound of trumpets, numberless ones it seemed, and of
hoofs, as if hordes of horses had passed through the wood, and of
drums, and of battle-cries in Moorish. It was one long, tremendous,
indescribable confusion. The Duke and the Duchess were seemingly taken
aback; Don Quixote did not know what to think or do; and Sancho was
absolutely panic-stricken. It was a din so overwhelming that even
those who had arranged it were aghast and afraid.

Then there came a sudden lull, and a messenger--dressed like a demon
and blowing a horn that sounded a weird and sickly note--appeared
before their eyes, apparently in great haste. The Duke called to him
and asked him where he was going; and he replied in a coarse voice
that he was the Devil and was looking for Don Quixote of La Mancha. He
pointed to the on-riding troops, and said that they were enchanters
who were bringing the famous Lady Dulcinea del Toboso and the great
Frenchman Montesinos on a triumphal car to seek their disenchantment
through the only one who could accomplish it, the Knight of the Lions.

On hearing this, Don Quixote said: "If you are the Devil, you ought to
know that I am Don Quixote!"

Whereupon the Devil exclaimed in surprise that he had not noticed the
knight at all because he was so preoccupied with so many other things
that he had almost forgotten what he was there for. Judging the Devil
by his remark Sancho decided he was a very honest fellow and a good
Christian; otherwise he would not have sworn--as Sancho did--by God
and his conscience. After that the squire concluded that even hell had
its quota of souls.

The Devil asked Don Quixote to communicate with Montesinos that he
might receive instructions as to how to carry out the disenchantment
of Lady Dulcinea; and then he turned around his horse and was gone.
The whole thing had happened so suddenly that even Don Quixote was
perplexed and seemed as if he did not know whether to believe what he
had seen and heard. Sancho was dumbfounded and frightened out of his

As Don Quixote made no move to follow the Devil's advice, the Duke
turned to him and asked whether he intended to remain where he was. He
answered that he would even if all the devils from hell should attack
him. Scarcely had he vowed this when he had to gather all his courage
in order not to give way to fear, for again there broke out a noise
and din that surpassed anything that he had ever heard: shots of
cannon and muskets, shouts and screams from all sides, and the
terrific sound of all the trumpets, horns, drums, bugles and clarions;
and then came the heavy creaking noise of carts, coming through the
wood and all brightly lighted with rows of tapers.

It was too much for poor Sancho. He fell fainting on the Duchess'
skirt. She ordered her servants to fan him and to throw water in his
face, and he regained consciousness just as one of the carts was
passing. It was drawn by four oxen, completely covered with black
cloth, and attached to each horn was a lighted wax taper. Leading the
oxen were two demons with such horrible, frightful faces that Sancho
shut his eyes tightly after having got one glance of them. An old,
worthy-looking man with a long, snow-white beard sat on a raised seat
on the cart; and when he passed Don Quixote he said in a deep voice:
"I am the sage Lirgandeo." And the cart continued. Then followed other
carts, with other sages, and Sancho's face suddenly lighted up, for he
heard sweet music in the distance, and he said to the Duchess:
"Señora, where there is music, there can be no mischief."

But Don Quixote would not commit himself, for all he remarked was:
"That remains to be seen."



As the sound of the music came closer, they distinguished a triumphal
car, several times larger than the other ones, and on it were seated
two figures, surrounded by a great many penitents, robed in white, and
with lighted wax tapers in their hands. One of the figures was a young
maiden in the costume of a nymph. She was very beautiful. The other
one was dressed in a robe of state and had her head covered with a
black veil.

As the car reached the spot where the Duke and Duchess and Don Quixote
were standing, the music suddenly ceased, and the figure in the long
robe rose and removed both the robe and the veil. All were astonished
to find themselves face to face with Death. Sancho was frightened; Don
Quixote felt ill at ease; and even the Duke and the Duchess seemed

Then Death began to declaim a long poem which ended with the
announcement that the Lady Dulcinea was enchanted by himself, the sage
Merlin, here in the guise of Death, and that she could be redeemed in
but one way: by three thousand three hundred lashes administered on
Don Quixote's squire Sancho.

When Sancho heard this he exclaimed that he would rather stab himself
that take the lashes, for he failed to see what he had to do with the
enchantment of the Lady Dulcinea. This talk infuriated Don Quixote,
who threatened to tie him to a tree and lay on the lashes himself, if
his faithful squire had so little respect for his beloved one that he
would not sacrifice himself to such an extent. But Merlin said that
would have no effect, for the worthy Sancho must do the sacrifice of
his own free will, or the disenchantment could not be accomplished.

Sancho, however, was as stubborn as a mule, and it was not until the
Duke himself took a hand in the matter and threatened him with the
loss of his governorship that he gave in; and then a compromise was
made whereby Sancho promised to inflict the three thousand three
hundred lashes upon himself. Merlin assured him, however, that if he
should make any mistake in counting them, it would soon be known; for
the moment all the lashes had been dealt, the Lady Dulcinea would be
released--neither one lash before, nor one lash after--and she would
at once come to thank and reward him for his sacrifice.

As soon as Sancho had testified his willingness to serve his master and
his master's lady, Don Quixote fell on his squire's neck and kissed him.
The Duke and the Duchess praised him for his unselfishness. And the music
played again. Then the car moved on, Lady Dulcinea bowed to Sancho and
the ducal pair, and dawn appeared with its glowing smile. The muskets
were again heard; and all was calm.

The Duke was pleased beyond measure with his idea, which had been so
effectively carried out. The hunt was at an end, and all returned
happy and content--all except Sancho, who could not help thinking of
the pain he was to give himself. But the Duke was bent on hitting upon
new schemes whereby he should be able to continue the gaiety that
Sancho and his master caused.



The Duke's majordomo had played the part of Merlin, and he it was who
induced a page to appear as Dulcinea. This majordomo was a fellow full
of pranks and good humor, and it was he who had written the verses he
recited, too. To him the Duke now turned, and they contrived together
another amusing scheme.

The next day Sancho was asked by the Duchess how many lashes he had
given himself; and he replied meekly that he had commenced with five.
After a moment's inquisition, however, the squire admitted that it had
not been with lashes but slaps that he had done penance. The Duchess
said she was certain that the sage Merlin would not tolerate any such
false pretense. She suggested that he make a scourge with claws or
knotted cords so that he would be sure to feel what he was doing to
himself, and when the Duchess offered to bring him such a scourge in
the morning, he had to promise to accept it. Then he told her that he
had written a letter to his wife, Teresa Panza, in the governor style;
and begged her to read it, which she did. The Duchess derived so much
amusement from it that she hastened to show it to the Duke. And when
Sancho was asked whether he had written the letter himself, he said
that he only dictated it, since he could neither read nor write.

After dinner the Duke and the Duchess were sitting in the garden
talking with Don Quixote and Sancho, when suddenly there was heard the
sound of a deep doleful voice. They all turned quickly to see who was
speaking, and there they saw approaching them a man with a snow-white
beard that reached almost to the ground. He said he was Trifaldin, of
the White Beard, squire to the Countess Trifaldi, otherwise called the
Distressed Duenna, and that he had come in search of the valiant
knight Don Quixote who he had heard was visiting at the castle. His
mistress, he said, in order to find this knight had traveled all the
way from the kingdom of Kandy without breaking her fast, and now he
begged that Don Quixote would receive the lady, that she herself might
tell him her misfortunes.

Don Quixote at once bade the squire go and fetch the Countess; at the
same time he uttered a desire to the Duke that the confessor who did
not believe in knights errant might have been present to see how
appreciated and famed his achievements had become throughout the



The Countess soon arrived, escorted by twelve duennas, who formed a
lane through which she passed into the Duke's presence. On seeing so
distinguished a guest, he went to receive her with all the honors due
to her rank. When she had curtsied, she asked the Duke if it were true
that the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha was present in the company.
The import of her question was heightened by the way she expressed it,
for these were her words spoken in a deep and coarse voice: "Are there
present here that knight immaculatissimus, Don Quixote de la
Manchissima, and his squirissimus Panza?"

Before Don Quixote or any one else had had an opportunity to reply,
Sancho opened his mouth and burst out: "The Panza is here, and Don
Quixottissimus too; and so, most distressedest Duennissima, you may
say what you willissimus, for we are all readissimus to do you any

Then Don Quixote stepped forward and begged the duenna to give him an
account of her distress that he might know how to relieve it. The
duenna became emotional almost beyond bounds. She thrust herself
before Don Quixote and embraced his legs, imploring his and his
squire's help, and then began to tell her story of misery.

All the while the Duke and the Duchess were in paroxysms of laughter,
so well did the duenna act her part. And their enjoyment was further
heightened by the remarks and questions that Sancho interspersed here
and there, always at the wrong moment and much to his master's

The weeping duenna went on to tell how she had been the ranking duenna
at the court of the dowager-queen of Kandy; how she had been entrusted
with the care and the bringing up of the Princess Antonomasia, the
young heiress of the kingdom, and how she had permitted a young
gentleman at the court, who was enamored of the Princess, to gain her
favor in such a degree that marriage followed. The young Don had
captivated both the Princess and the duenna with his accomplishments,
for not only did he play the guitar and write poetry, and dance, but
he could as well make bird-cages. But when the Queen learned of her
daughter's marriage to one so much beneath her in rank, her heart
broke in twain and she collapsed and was buried in three days, the
duenna declared, tears streaming down her face all the while.

Sancho was curious at once, and wanted to have a doubt settled. "She
died, no doubt?" he asked; and the duenna assured him that they did
not bury the living in Kandy, only the dead. But Sancho thought it was
a very stupid thing for the Old Queen to go and die thus; he said he
could see no reason why she should have taken the whole thing so to
heart, for the Princess might have married a page. That, in Sancho's
opinion, might have been an excuse for dying; but the Don was such an
accomplished man, and a gentleman at that, who could even make
bird-cages. Dying was too absurd!

Then the duenna resumed, and now came the worst of her story. She told
how the two lovers, upon the Queen's death, had become enchanted by
the giant Malambruno, the Queen's first cousin, who had sworn that
they would not regain their right shapes until the famous and valiant
knight of La Mancha had met him in single combat. Having sentenced
them thus, he summoned all the duennas in the castle, charging them
with the responsibility of the evil match, and saying that since he
did not wish them to suffer death, he would punish them in some other
way. Scarcely had the giant uttered these words before their faces
began to sting, their pores opened, and when the duennas put their
hands to their faces, they felt themselves punished in a most
horrifying manner.

Here the thirteen duennas raised their veils, and the Duke and his
company were amazed to see that all the women were bearded. The
Distressed Duenna raised a wail, and assured those present that had it
not been that she had cried so much that she had no tears left, she
would now shed them copiously, and she exclaimed: "Where, I ask, can a
duenna with a beard go? What father or mother will pity her? Who will
help her? For, if even when she has a smooth skin and a face tortured
by a thousand kinds of cosmetics, she can hardly get anybody to love
her, what will she do when she shows a countenance turned into a
thicket? O duennas! It was an unlucky moment when we were born and
when our fathers begot us!"

As the unhappy duenna spoke these words, it seemed as if she were
about to faint. With a deep and distressing moan, she covered her face
with her hands.



The one who was most impressed by this sad story and enchantment was
Sancho, who thought it a dastardly trick for any giant to do. Did not
the enchanter know that it cost money to shave? In Sancho's opinion,
it would have been infinitely better to have taken off a part of their
noses, even if it would have given them an impediment of speech. The
duennas replied that some of them had tried sticking-plaster in order
to spare themselves the expense of shaving, but to jerk it off their
faces, was a painful procedure, they said.

Don Quixote interrupted and declared that they would have to follow no
such course, for he would rid them of their beards or he would pluck
out his own in the land of the Moors. Such a noble declaration seemed
to revive the Distressed Duenna. She came up to Don Quixote and told
him that the giant Malambruno had been courteous enough to offer to
send the famous wooden steed that the valiant Pierres used. Merlin had
made it. This horse could go through the air with a speed that
carried its rider to the ends of the world overnight. It was steered
by a peg in his forehead, she said, and this peg also served as a
bridle. Furthermore, there was room for two--one in the saddle, and
one on the croup.

"I should like to see him," said Sancho; "but to fancy that I am going
to mount him, either in the saddle or on the croup, is to ask pears of
an elm-tree. Let each one shave himself as best he can; I am not going
to be bruised to get rid of any one's beard."

But Countess Trifaldi insisted that Panza was indispensable to the
shaving of the duennas; and when the Duchess had pleaded with him and
he saw the Distressed Duenna's eyes fill with tears, he could hardly
keep his own back. He bent to their will and resigned himself to his
fate and the adventure of riding through the air on the croup of the
mighty wooden steed.



Don Quixote was in a state of anxiety during the whole day for fear
that Malambruno should not send the steed, but soon after nightfall
there arrived in the garden four wild-men, clad in ivy, and carrying
on their shoulders a large wooden horse. Don Quixote was summoned by
the Distressed Duenna and he mounted the horse at once, not even
putting on his spurs. By this time, however, Sancho had changed his
mind and decided that he was not going to fly through the air like a
witch. But upon the earnest and courteous solicitations of the Duke,
Sancho at last consented to ride with his master.

Don Quixote begged Sancho to give himself five hundred lashes on
behalf of his enchanted Dulcinea before they set off; but this request
struck the squire as the absurdest one he had ever heard. How could
his master expect him to sit on a hard wooden horse while he was all
bruised and sore from the lashes? He did promise solemnly, however,
that as soon as the duennas had been shaved he would turn to the
fulfilling of the other debt.

The Distressed Duenna blindfolded them, saying that doing so would
prevent them from getting dizzy when they rose to great heights; and
Sancho, trembling and tearful, complained that the croup was too hard
and begged for a cushion. But the duenna answered him that the magic
steed permitted no trappings of any kind, and she suggested that he
place himself sideways like a woman, for no doubt he would feel the
hardness less in that position.

Sancho did so; and then he uncovered his eyes and looked in a tender
fashion on those he was leaving behind, and began to cry piteously.
Don Quixote told him sharply to cover his eyes again and not to act
like a fool and a coward; and his squire did as he was bidden, after
having commended himself to God and begged the duennas to pray all the
paternosters and ave-marias they could for him. They in turn
admonished him to stick tight to the croup and not to lose hold of it,
warning him that if he fell, he would fall like a planet and be
blinded by all the stars he would meet on his way down to Earth.

Sobbing, Sancho clung to his master, embracing him with his fat arms
so tightly that Don Quixote came near being upset. The knight took a
firm grip on the steering peg, and reprimanded his squire for
squeezing him. He told him there was nothing to worry about, for it
seemed to him he had never in his life ridden a steed that was so
easy-going: one would hardly think they had budged from their original
place, he said. When Sancho had calmed himself, he concurred in this
opinion. He had never heard that there were people living in the air,
and did he not hear voices quite close to his ears? Don Quixote then
had to explain that affairs of this sort were not of the every-day
kind, and that whenever one went on a trip like this, the voices from
the Earth would reach thousands of leagues away.

Scarcely had Don Quixote said this, before a gust of wind came that
threatened to unseat both the knight and his squire. (The fact was
that it was the draught from a tremendous pair of bellows which the
Duke had had unearthed for the occasion.) Sancho was shaking in his
seat, and Don Quixote warned him again to sit still, for they were in
danger of having a runaway straight into the regions of air and
thunder, and then into the region of fire. He feared he might not get
the steed to turn before it was too late, he said; for it seemed as if
the machinery of the peg were rather intricate, and did not work

Suddenly Sancho began to yell that they were already lost in the
flames, and would be burned to death. (He felt his beard being singed
by a torch. It was one of a great number that the majordomo had
provided.) Don Quixote, too, felt his face warm up. But he would not
permit Sancho to uncover his eyes; if he did, the knight said he would
only be seized with giddiness and both of them would fall off their
horse. Besides, he comforted Sancho with the thought that the journey
would last only a few moments longer, and that they were now passing a
final test before landing in the kingdom of Kandy. Don Quixote added
that the distance they had traveled must have been tremendous, and
Sancho replied: "All I know is that if the Señora Magallanes or
Magalona was satisfied with this croup, she could not have been very
tender of flesh."

At this moment came the culmination of their journey through the air.
A torch was tied to the tail of the steed, which was stuffed with
fire-crackers, and suddenly there was a tremendous noise and a flash,
and in the next moment Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, both scorched,
lay as if thunderstruck on the ground.

When the knight and his squire finally came to, and looked about, they
were aghast at what they saw. The ground was strewn with bodies, but
the bearded duennas were gone. Planted in the ground they saw a lance,
attached to which they found a parchment which proclaimed that the
enchantment of the duennas and of the Don and his royal bride was at
an end, and that as soon as the squire Sancho Panza deigned to carry
out the flogging he was to give himself, the peerless Dulcinea would
appear in all her original beauty again.

Now the Duke and the Duchess, who were among the bodies lying on the
ground, seemingly dead, lifted up their heads, as if just coming out
of a long sleep; and Don Quixote hastened to tell them of the great
miracle that had befallen him. They were both convulsed with
laughter--which Don Quixote mistook for emotion--and when he had
finished telling them about his marvelous adventure, they had all they
could do to reply. The Duke finally gathered enough strength to
embrace him and tell him that he was no doubt the greatest knight the
world had ever known.

The Duchess was curious to know how Sancho had enjoyed the trip; and
he confessed that in spite of his master's command he had peered from
underneath the kerchief before his eyes, and had seen the earth below,
and that the people seemed as little as hazelnuts and the earth itself
looked like a grain of mustard-seed; and when he passed through the
region of fire he had seen the goats of heaven, he said.



The heaven-riding adventure had been such a success that the Duke and
the Duchess could not rest until they had seen Sancho installed as
governor of his island; for they felt certain they should derive a
great fund of amusement from such an experiment. So Sancho was told to
prepare himself.

But Sancho, having seen heaven, seemed less keen to be governor now,
since he felt how small humanity really was, particularly in
comparison with the goats of the sky which he claimed he had seen, and
he replied that he would much rather have a bit of heaven than any
island on earth. The Duke, however, told Sancho that, not being the
ruler there, it was for God to dispose of such domains. So Sancho
promised to come down to earth and be governor, and to attire himself
in the regalia befitting the office.

This being done, Don Quixote and Sancho withdrew to the knight's room,
and there Don Quixote gave his squire advice about governing. He
admonished him to be a champion of virtue always, to strive to know
himself and not to puff himself up like a peacock, whose feathers, he
bade him remember, were fine, but who had ugly feet. And the advice
and instructions that master gave servant were such that no one would
have thought it was a madman speaking.



Don Quixote then told his squire to forget neither to cut his nails nor
to supply his servants with livery. The latter, he said, must be neat and
never showy. If he could do with three servants instead of six, he
advised him to clothe three poor men: thus he would have pages for heaven
as well as for earth. He must never eat garlic or onions, the knight
said, and he begged him to leave out all affectations. When it came to
drinking, he asked him always to bear in mind that too much wine kept
neither secrets nor promises. Another thing he must not do was to flatter
people; Don Quixote considered this a very odious practice. Last, but not
least, said Don Quixote, he must remember not to use such quantities of
proverbs as he had been wont to.

Here Sancho felt he had to break in and say a word, and he retorted:
"God alone can cure that, for I have more proverbs in me than a book,
and when I speak they fall to fighting among themselves to get out;
that's why my tongue lets fly the first that comes, though it may not
be pat to the purpose." And here Sancho in the very face of his
master's admonitions, let go a string of proverbs so long that Don
Quixote was almost in despair.

"My mother beats me, and I go on with my tricks," said Don Quixote. "I
am bidding thee avoid proverbs, and here in a second thou hast shot
out a whole litany of them. Those proverbs will bring thee to the
gallows some day, I promise thee."



Before Sancho departed for his island--which was in reality a village
belonging to his new master's duchy, and surrounded by land on all
sides--Don Quixote wrote out carefully the advice he had given him in
the morning of the same day. To escort the new governor to the village
the Duke had chosen the majordomo, who had played the part of the
Countess Trifaldi; and the moment Sancho saw his face and heard him
speak, he confided to his master the resemblance in voice and

Always suspicious of enchanters, Don Quixote bade his late squire to
keep a sharp eye on the man, and to be sure to inform him whether
anything happened that confirmed his suspicion.

Then Sancho was dressed in the garb of a lawyer and mounted on a mule.
Dapple followed behind with new trappings, and Sancho was so pleased
with the appearance of Dapple that he could not help turning around
from time to time to look at him. Don Quixote wept when it came to the
leave-taking, and Sancho kissed devotedly the hands of the Duchess and
the Duke.

But as soon as Sancho had left, Don Quixote felt a great loneliness in
his heart; and that night, after having supped with the ducal pair, he
begged to be excused early and retired to his room, saying he wanted
no servant to wait on him.

He undressed at once, and went to bed, leaving the window overlooking
the garden open. Soon he heard the voices of two young maidens, and he
was surprised to hear that they were speaking of him. One of them he
recognized as the fair Altisidora, and, persuaded by the other voice,
she commenced to serenade the knight, to whom in her song she bared
her aching heart, and the passion that burned there for him.

But the knight could not be moved. His was a love for no one but his
Dulcinea. To indicate to the young maiden that he was aware of her
intentions and could not be swayed, he rose from his bed, and went to
the window and feigned a sneeze. When that was of no avail and neither
produced reticence in the maidens nor drove them away from his window,
he sighed: "O what an unlucky knight I am that no damsel can set eyes
on me but falls in love with me!" And he went on to bewail his fate,
crying out in the night that all the empresses in the world were
jealous of the love he bore in his heart for the sweet Dulcinea, and
saying that he must and would remain hers, pure, courteous, and
chaste, in spite of all the magic-working powers on earth.

Then the worthy knight shut his window with a bang, and thrust himself
on his bed, entirely out of patience with the enticing and sinful
young maidens.



When Sancho arrived in his village he learned that his island was
called Barataria. He was greeted with great demonstrations: the whole
community had turned out to meet him, and all the churchbells were
ringing. He was first taken to the church, where he gave thanks to
God; then he was presented with the keys of the town. From the church
he was taken to the judgment seat outside, and there he was told to
answer numerous questions which the majordomo put to him, saying that
that was an ancient custom on taking office.

The questions were cases of quarrels between the villagers, and Sancho
answered each one of them so sagely that every one gaped in wonder,
for, judging by his appearance and the way he talked, they had thought
their governor a fool. Instead of thinking thus, they now began to
admire him and to consider themselves lucky and blessed by having him
in their midst.



The thought of Altisidora's love bothered Don Quixote so that he could
not go to sleep. He had torn his green stockings, while undressing, and
having neither needle nor thread he could not mend them, and this
increased his annoyance. Soon it was morning, and to put an end to his
agony, he rose and dressed himself. But on his way to the ante-chamber,
where the Duke and Duchess would receive him, he passed through a
gallery, where he was surprised to find the fair Altisidora and her
friend who had been with her outside his window the night before.

When Altisidora laid eyes on the knight errant, she fell in a dead
faint, but was caught in the arms of her friend, who began to unlace
her dress. Don Quixote remained cold and untouched, mumbling all the
while to himself that he knew perfectly well why she had fainted. Her
friend retorted with venom in her voice that she wished he would
disappear from the castle, for if he remained there much longer
Altisidora would be wasting away into nothingness--even if she were
the healthiest and most buxom maiden there at the moment--and die from
a broken heart. This seemed to touch Don Quixote, for he replied that
if she would see to it that a lute was put in his room that night, he
would sing to her and try to comfort her in the night while she stood
outside his window.

The damsels went at once to tell the Duchess what had happened, and
she was pleased beyond words; and together they hit upon a new joke
which would bring them fresh merriment.

Just before midnight Don Quixote came to his chamber and found there a
guitar; and, having tuned it as best he could, he began to let out his
rusty voice into the notes of a ballad that he himself had composed
that day. While he stood there on his balcony singing, there suddenly
broke out a tremendous din; and from above was let down a cord to
which hundreds of bells were attached, making the most deafening
sound. At the same time a bag of cats, each with a bell tied to its
tail, came shooting down upon the unfortunate knight, who was
frightened beyond words by the meowing and squalling and screaming of
the cats and by the jingling of the bells.

Don Quixote stood paralyzed, with the guitar clutched in his hand,
when suddenly it struck him that his room must have been invaded by
jumping devils--for the cats had knocked the candles down on the
floor, extinguishing them as they did so, and the room was now in
pitch darkness. He suddenly flung his guitar away and drew his sword,
charging the enchanters with all the fervor and energy that he

All the cats flew toward the balcony, from where they escaped into the
garden--all except one, which Don Quixote had cornered, and was making
violent stabs at, without hitting anything but the air, the wall and
the floor. This little beast, fighting for its life, like one beset,
jumped at the knight, put its teeth and claws into his nose, and
remained there, holding on infuriated, while Don Quixote gave out the
most terrible screams and howls.

When the Duke and the Duchess heard what was going on, they became
afraid that some harm might be done the knight errant; so they ran to
his chamber with all haste. The Duke rushed to the rescue of Don
Quixote's nose; but in spite of the horrible pain he must have been
in, the knight was brave enough to decline all aid, shouting aloud
that he wished to fight the malignant enchanter alone. At last,
however, the Duke could see the poor fellow suffer no longer, and he
managed to separate the cat from Don Quixote's nose.

The fair Altisidora was given the task to cover the damaged parts of
the knight's face with ointment, and she did this with a loving and
caressing hand, although she could not resist telling him that he
would not have been in this predicament if he had listened to her the
night before. She jealously hoped, too, that his squire Sancho would
forget all about the whippings so that Dulcinea would remain enchanted
forever. But Don Quixote was insensible to anything she said; he only
sighed and sighed. And then he thanked the Duke and the Duchess for
all their kindness; and they really felt sorry in their hearts for the
end the joke had taken. They bade him good-night; he stretched himself
on his bed; and there he remained for five days.



Having held court, Sancho was escorted to a magnificent palace, where
dinner had been laid in a large and gorgeous chamber. There were
numerous ceremonies that he had to pass through as he entered; but he
went through them all undisturbed and with phlegmatic dignity. He was
seated at the head of the table, his own guest of honor as it were,
for he found he was the only one present there, excepting a number of
pages who surrounded him. But then he discovered behind himself a
gentleman who turned out to be a physician, and who soon aroused
Sancho's ire. For every time a dish was passed to Sancho, it had first
to be passed upon by the physician; and this dignitary seemed to have
made up his mind that governors were not meant to live, for every dish
was sent back to the kitchen, and Sancho found that a governor's meal
consisted in starvation.

This finally enraged the new governor so that he ordered the doctor
out of his sight, threatening to break a chair over his head if he did
not disappear quickly enough; but just at that moment there arrived a
messenger with a letter for the Governor from the Duke, and Sancho
became so excited that he forgot about his physician's expulsion for
the moment. The majordomo read the letter, which was addressed to the
Governor of the Island of Barataria. In it the Duke warned Sancho that
attacks would be made upon the island some night in the near future by
enemies of the Duke, and also, the Duke said, he had learned that four
men had entered the town in disguise, and that they would make an
attempt upon the Governor's life. He therefore cautioned Sancho to eat
nothing that was offered to him.

At once Sancho decided that the worst conspirator against his life was
the physician, who wanted to kill him by the slow death of hunger. He
said he thought it best to have him thrust into a dungeon. And then he
asked for a piece of bread and four pounds of grapes, feeling sure
that no poison would be in them, announcing at the same time as his
maxim that if he were going to be able to combat enemies he would have
to be well fed.

He then turned to the messenger and bade him say to the Duke that his
wishes would be obeyed; at the same time he sent a request to the
Duchess that she should not forget to have the letter he had written
to his Teresa Panza delivered, together with the bundle, by a
messenger. Last but not least, he asked to be remembered to his
beloved master Don Quixote by a kiss of the hand.



At last the physician felt it to his advantage to consent to prescribe
a good supper for the Governor that evening. The day had been taken up
with all sorts of applicants, who, it seemed to Sancho, would always
arrive at the wrong time, either when he was about to eat or wanted to

The supper hour, which Sancho had been longing for all that day
arrived at last, and he was delighted with the beef, salad, onions,
and calves' feet that were put before him. He told the doctor that for
the future he ought never to trouble himself about giving him dainty
dishes and choice food to eat, for it would only unhinge his stomach.
Then to the head-carver he said: "What you had best do is to serve me
with what they call _ollas podridas_--and the rottener they are the
better they smell!" The others he addressed proverbially thus: "But
let nobody play pranks on me, for either we are or we are not. Let us
live and eat in peace and good fellowship, for when God sends the
dawn, he sends it for all. I mean to govern this island without giving
up a right or taking a bribe. Let every one keep his eye open, and
look out for the arrow; for I can tell them 'the devil is in
Cantillana,' and if they drive me to it they shall see something that
will astonish them. Nay, make yourself honey and the flies will eat

In reply to this the head-carver took it upon himself to speak for the
rest of the inhabitants on the island, assuring Sancho that every one
was greatly pleased with his mild government, and that he already
stood high in their affections.

This brought forth a declaration from Sancho that if the people were
not pleased with his government, they would be fools; and then he went
on to state that he intended to see to it himself that the island was
purged of everything unclean and of all idlers and vagabonds. The
latter he compared to the drones in a hive, that eat up the honey the
industrious bees make. Furthermore, he emphasized that he would
encourage and reward the virtuous, and protect the church and its

The majordomo was genuinely filled with admiration for all the
excellent ideas and remarks of the new governor, particularly when he
considered that he was a man without either education or culture; and
he could not help admitting to himself that even a joke could
sometimes become a reality, and that those who had played a joke on
some one might live to find themselves the victims of the very same

That night the Governor as usual made his rounds, accompanied by the
majordomo and his whole staff, including the chronicler, who was to
record the deeds of Governor Don Sancho Panza; and before the night
was over he had given fresh proof of his wisdom, for he settled a
quarrel between two gamblers and decided to break up gambling on his
island. He kept a youth out of jail. And he restored a young girl, who
wanted to see the world as a boy, to her father.



The Duchess did not forget her promise, and she sent the page who had
played the part of Dulcinea when the Devil entered a plea for her
disenchantment, with Governor Sancho's letter and bundle to his wife.
At the same time the Duchess entrusted him with a string of coral
beads as a gift from herself to Teresa Panza, with which gift went a
letter as well.

When the page reached the village of La Mancha he saw, on entering it,
some women washing clothes in a brook; and he found that one of them
was no other than the Governor's young daughter. She eagerly ran to
the good-looking young man, and, breathless with excitement at the
thought of his having news from her father, she skipped along in front
of him until they had reached their little house.

Teresa Panza was spinning, and she came out in a gray petticoat,
vigorous, sunburnt and healthy, and wanted to know what all the
excitement was about. The page quickly jumped from his horse, thrust
himself on his knees before her, and exclaimed to the bewildered
woman: "Let me kiss your hand, Señora Doña Panza, as the lawful and
only wife of Señor Don Sancho Panza, rightful governor of the island
of Barataria."

But by this time the poor woman had got over her first surprise, and
she bade him rise, saying that he should not do things like that, and
that she was only a poor country woman, and the wife of a squire
errant, not a governor. However, when the page had given her the
letters and the gifts, her doubts were crushed, and she decided that
Sancho's master must have given her husband the government he had
promised him, the one that Sancho had been talking about all the time.
And then she asked the page to read the letters to her, since she
herself had not learned that art, although she could spin, she said.

When the page had finished reading the Duchess' letter, poor Teresa
Panza was overcome with gratitude to the gracious lady who had made
her husband, a poor illiterate booby, governor--and a good one
besides--and who had deigned to ask her, humble woman that she was,
for a couple of dozen or so of acorns.

"Ah, what a good, plain, lowly lady!" she exclaimed. "May I be buried
with ladies of that sort, and not with the gentlewomen we have in this
town, that fancy, because they are gentlewomen, the wind must not
touch them, and go to church with as much airs as if they were queens,
no less, and who seem to think they are disgraced if they look at a
farmer's wife! And see here how this good lady, for all she is a
Duchess, calls me her friend, and treats me as if I were her equal!"

Then she told her Sanchica to make ready a meal, with plenty of eggs
and bacon, for the lad who had brought them such good news, while she
herself ran out and told the neighbors of their great luck. Soon
Samson Carrasco and the curate came to the house, having heard the
news, and wanted to know what madness had taken possession of Sancho's
wife. But when they had read the letters and had seen the presents,
they themselves were perplexed, and did not know what to make of it;
and when they had met the page and he had confirmed everything that
was said in the letters, they were convinced, although they were at a
loss to understand how it all had come to happen.

The Duchess' asking for a few acorns, they could not quite comprehend,
but even this was soon explained, for the page assured them that his
lady, the Duchess, was so plain and unassuming that she had even been
known to have borrowed a comb from a peasant-woman neighbor on one
occasion; and he added that the ladies of Aragon were not nearly as
stiff and arrogant as those of Castile.

Sanchica's greatest concern centered around her father's legs. She was
anxious to learn how he covered them, now that he had become governor.
She was hoping that he would wear trunk-hose, for she had always had a
secret longing, she said, to see her father in tights; "What a sight
he must be in them!" she added.

The page replied that he had not observed her father's legs or how
they were dressed; but the joking way in which he gave his answer
furnished the curate and the bachelor with a fresh doubt as to the
reality of the governorship and Sancho's position. Yet they could not
forget the coral beads and the fine hunting-suit that the page had
brought, and which pointed to some truth in the matter.

Sanchica was anxious to make the trip to her father's island at once
with the messenger, who told them he had to leave that evening; and
Teresa Panza wanted to know whether the curate had heard of any one in
the village going to Madrid or Toledo, for she thought that she at
least ought to provide herself with a hooped petticoat, now that she
was the wife of a distinguished governor and no doubt destined to be
made a countess.

And while mother and daughter were contemplating and worrying about
their new position in life, they interspersed their sentences with so
many proverbs that the curate felt obliged to remark that he thought
that all the Panzas were born with a sackful of proverbs in their
insides. The page told them here that the Governor uttered them most
frequently and spontaneously, much to the amusement of the Duke and
the Duchess; and then he reminded the Governor's lady of his hunger.
But the curate softly took him by the arm and whispered to him that
poor Teresa Panza had more will to serve than she had means, and
invited him to sup at his own house.

In order not to lose weight or starve, the page consented; and the
curate was glad to have an opportunity to talk with him alone.

Sanchica again expressed her desire to travel with the page; and the
page tried to persuade her not to come along, for, he said, the
daughters of governors must travel in a coach and in style, with many
attendants. The girl thought that was nonsense, however, and it was
not until her mother hushed her up with her proverbial logic that she
ceased arguing. Said mother Teresa Panza to her daughter: "As the time
so the behavior: when it was Sancho it was Sanchica, when it is
governor it is señorita." And that settled it.

The bachelor offered to write letters for Teresa Panza to her husband
and the Duchess; but, somehow, she did not seem to trust him, for she
refused his offer. Instead she induced a young acolyte to write the
epistles for her, paying him with the eggs which she was to have used
for the page's supper.



The thing that troubled Sancho most was not his manifold duties nor
his judgments, but his appetite. It was as keen as ever, yet he got
next to nothing to eat. The morning after he had made his round, they
gave him only some water and a little conserve for breakfast, the
doctor advising him that light food was the most nourishing for the
wits, and especially to be recommended to people who were placed in
responsible positions--such as governors, for instance. Thus poor
Sancho was persuaded to submit to a process of starvation which was
gradually making him regret, and finally curse, his ever having
become governor.

He sat in judgment that day but a short time, and made a decision in
an intricate case with so much good sense and wit that the majordomo
was overwhelmed with admiration, and could not refrain from taking
pity on the governor's stomach. So he stood up and announced, knowing
it would have the Governor's immediate and unqualified sanction, that
the session had come to an end for the morning; then turning to
Sancho, he promised to give him a dinner that day that would please

Sancho was grateful in advance, and felt moved to thank him. "That is
all I ask for," he declared: "fair play! Give me my dinner, and then
let it rain cases and questions on me, and I shall despatch them in a
twinkling." And since it had been arranged by the conspirators in the
joke that this was to be the last day of Sancho Panza's reign as
governor, the majordomo gave him the best dinner that he could.

Just as the Governor was finishing his repast a courier arrived with a
letter from Don Quixote. The secretary read it aloud to him, and he
listened attentively and respectfully to the wisdom and good and sound
advice that his beloved Don Quixote gave him in the letter. All who
heard it read were agreed that they had seldom had the fortune to hear
such a well-worded and thoroughly sensible epistle; and Sancho was
proud of the praise that was being bestowed on his former master, to
whom he still was as devoted as ever.

The Governor withdrew with his secretary into his own room, and there
he dictated at once his reply to Don Quixote's letter. In this he
confided to him all that had happened on his island, the reforms he
had undertaken, and the judgments he had handed down. He finished by
asking the knight to kiss the hand of the sweet Duchess for him and
tell her that she had not thrown it into a sack with a hole in it, as
she would see in the end: meaning by this that he would show her how
grateful he was as soon as he had an opportunity.

The courier returned to the ducal palace with the Governor's message;
and Sancho spent the afternoon in making provisions for all sorts of
beneficial improvements in his government, reducing prices on a number
of necessaries, and confirming laws that tended to help the poor and
needy, while they would incriminate those who were impostors,
good-for-nothings, and vagabonds. Even to this day some of these laws
are in existence there, and are called _The constitutions of the great
governor, Sancho Panza_.



Don Quixote had now been healed of his scratches, and he began to long
for the road; for the life was too easy, he thought, for one who had
dedicated himself to knight-errantry and valorous deeds. But the day
he had decided to break the news to the Duke and the Duchess, the
messenger that the Duchess had sent to Sancho's wife returned,
bringing with him two letters, one addressed to "The Duchess
So-and-so, of I don't know where," and the other one to "The Governor,
Sancho Panza of the Island of Barataria, whom God prosper longer than

The Duchess was so eager to read her letter that she opened it at
once; and having read it to herself, she felt she ought to give
amusement to the others too, so she read it aloud to all who were
there. She was dying to see what the letter to the Governor contained,
so she asked Don Quixote whether he thought it would be a breach of
etiquette to read it; and Don Quixote took it upon himself, as
Sancho's late master and guardian, to open it. Then he read it to the
Duke and the Duchess, who laughed to their heart's content at the many
drolleries with which Teresa Panza had stuffed her epistle.

Just as the merriment was at its peak, the courier with Sancho Panza's
reply to Don Quixote arrived, and that communication too was read
aloud; and the Duke could not omit remarking that it was a most
excellent and sane letter. The Duchess, however, was anxious to
question the page about his visit with Teresa Panza, so she excused
herself, and withdrew with the page and her presents; for, besides the
acorns, the Governor's wife had sent her a cheese, much to the
gratification of the Duchess.



The seventh day of Sancho's government was approaching its end. The
Governor lay in his bed, resting after all the judgments and
proclamations he had made that day upon a fasting stomach. Suddenly he
rose in his bed, for he heard the most deafening noise, intermingled
with the ringing of churchbells. To this sound was added that of
trumpets and drums, and the combination made a din that frightened
Sancho almost out of his wits. He flew out of bed, put on a pair of
slippers, and rushed into the street, dressed in nothing but his night
shirt. He was startled to see the streets crowded with men, carrying
torches, and crying: "To arms, Señor Governor, to arms! The enemy is
here, and we are lost, unless you come to the rescue with your sword!"

Sancho was lost; he did not know what to do, for swordsmanship was not
among his accomplishments. And so he simply asked them whether the
enemy could not wait until he had a chance to summon his master Don
Quixote of La Mancha, who, he said, knew all about arms.

Just then one of the inhabitants came along, carrying two shields, and
without any ceremony he told Sancho in plain language that it was his
duty as their governor to lead them into battle. Then he covered
him--without giving him a chance to put on anything besides his
night-shirt--with the two shields, one in front and the other one
behind; pressing them together as tightly as he and another man could
manage, they laced them with rope, so that Sancho could neither move a
muscle, nor bend a leg. Then they put a lance in his hand and told him
to lead them into battle against the enemy, for now they were no
longer afraid of the outcome, they said.

"How am I to march, unlucky being that I am," asked Sancho, "when I
cannot stir my knee-caps for these boards that are bound so tightly to
my body! What you must do is to carry me in your arms, and lay me
across or set me upright in some postern, and I shall hold it either
with this lance or with my body."

When the men heard the Governor speak thus, one of them was bold enough
to suggest that he could not move because he was too frightened; and this
angered poor Sancho into a frantic attempt to take a step in the
direction of the invading army. But this step was a fatal one, for the
Governor fell in his undignified stiffness flat on his back with such a
crash that he thought he had broken every bone in his body.

The men now quickly extinguished their torches, and began to step on
his shield, slashing their swords over his head, shouting and yelling,
and making all the noise they could. Had Sancho not pulled in his head
like a tortoise in his shell, he might have fared ill. One man boldly
placed himself on Sancho's roof, calling in a mighty voice, now and
then filled with an agonized grunt, such directions as these: "Hold
the breach there! Shut the gate! Barricade those ladders! Block the
streets with feather-beds! Here with your stink-pots of pitch and
resin, and kettles of boiling oil!"

All these exclamations put fear in the already hard-pressed and
squeezed heart of Sancho Panza, who was wishing where he lay that he
had never seen the sight of an island. He was in such an agony that he
began to pray to the Lord in Heaven to have mercy on him and let him
die, or else let this terrible strife and warfare come to an end.

Heaven must have heard Sancho's prayer, for suddenly he heard cries
of: "Victory! Victory! The enemy retreats!" Then some one jerked him
by the arm, and told him to stand up and enjoy the victory; and
finally some of the bystanders took pity on him, and lifted him up
from his vertical position. But Sancho refused to enjoy any victory.
All he asked for, he said, was that some one wipe the perspiration
from his body, and give him some wine for his parched throat. When
they had fulfilled this desire of his, they carried him to his
chamber, were they put him to bed. Hardly had they got him to bed
before he fainted away, overcome with excitement and governments.

The attendants sprinkled some water in the Governor's face, and he
soon came back to life. The first thing he asked was what time it was.
They replied it was early morning. He rose without saying a word,
dressed himself in haste, and then went out to the stable, where they
found him hanging round his Dapple's neck, kissing and embracing him,
while tears were streaming down his face. Having swallowed the first
flood of tears, the late squire addressed his faithful donkey in the
tenderest and most heartrending terms, telling him that he should
have stuck by him all the time, and not let himself be carried away by
ambitions to become governor of islands.

Sancho then put the pack-saddle on Dapple's back, and mounted--a
process of much pain--and from his dear confederate's back he
addressed the majordomo and those of his staff who had followed him to
the stable. "Make way," he said, "and let me go back to my old
freedom; let me go look for my past life, and raise myself up from
this present death. I was not born to be a governor or to protect
islands or cities from the enemies that choose to attack them.
Ploughing and digging, vine-dressing and pruning, are more in my way
than defending provinces or kingdoms. Saint Peter is very well in
Rome: I mean, each of us is best following the trade he was born to. I
would rather have my fill of the simplest pot-luck than be subject to
the misery of a meddling doctor who kills me with hunger; and I would
rather lie in summer under the shade of an oak, and in winter wrap
myself in a double sheepskin jacket in freedom, than to go to bed
between Holland sheets and dress in sables under the restraint of a
government. God be with your Worships! Tell my lord, the Duke, that
naked was I born, naked I find myself, I neither lose nor gain: I mean
that without a farthing I came into this government, and without a
farthing I go out of it--very different from the way governors
commonly leave other islands. Stand aside and let me go. I have to
plaster myself, for I believe every one of my ribs is crushed, thanks
to the enemies that have been trampling over me to-night."

Here the doctor offered to give the retiring governor a draught that
would cure him of all pain. He also promised Sancho if he would stay
he would behave better in the future, and give him as much to eat as
he desired. But Sancho was not at a loss for an answer this time.

"You spoke late," said he. "I should as soon turn Turk as stay any
longer. Those jokes will not pass a second time. By the Lord, I should
as soon remain in this government, or take another one, even if it was
offered me between two plates, as fly to heaven without wings. I am of
the breed of Panzas, and they are every one of them obstinate, and if
they once say odds, odds it must be, no matter if it is evens, in
spite of all the world. Here in this stable I leave the ant's wings
that lifted me up into the air for the swifts and other birds to eat
them, and let us take to the level ground and our feet once more; and
if they are not shod in pinked shoes of cordovan, they shall not want
for rough sandals of hemp. Every ewe to her like and let no one
stretch his leg beyond the length of the sheet. And now let me pass,
for it is growing late with me."

After this meditation, strung with proverbs, the majordomo turned to
Sancho and said that before he departed it was necessary that he
render an account for the ten days that he had governed the island.
But this was not Sancho's idea, and he quickly replied that he would
seek out the Duke and give an accounting to him, for he was the only
one to whom he was responsible. He added that as he would come to him
naked, that would be the best proof that he had governed like an

So they all agreed to let him proceed, for they were certain that the
Duke would be delighted to see him. They offered him anything that he
might need for the journey; but all Sancho asked for was some barley
for his Dapple, and some bread and cheese for himself. Then they all
bade him godspeed and embraced him; and Sancho, with tears in his
eyes, took leave of them. The majordomo and the rest of Sancho's staff
could not help thinking that he had displayed more sense than most men
might have under the same circumstances; for when Sancho left his
government he had earned their admiration for many and good reasons.



Sancho had almost reached the Duke's castle, when night suddenly fell
and it grew so dark that he considered it best to stop where he was
and remain there overnight. Accordingly he took Dapple off the road,
and they went in search for some comfortable place where they could
rest. Presently Sancho found himself among some old ruins, and as he
was stumbling along he suddenly felt himself and Dapple falling deep
into the earth. He thought it was going to be an endless journey, but
when he struck bottom he discovered that nothing had happened to him
or to his faithful donkey, for there he was, still mounted even.

Of course he was somewhat shaken by this sudden plunge into the lower
regions, and taken aback; but as soon as he realized that he was
unhurt he began to praise the Lord and to give thanks to him on behalf
of himself and Dapple, who had burst into lamentations upon finding
himself separated from meadow and green grass. Then Sancho began to
look about for a way out, but he searched in vain, and it became plain
to him that here he was buried alive. He thought of his master's
descent into the cave of Montesinos, and was envious of Don Quixote's
imagination which could conjure up so easily soft beds to sleep in and
good food to eat. He could already see himself as a skeleton, and he
shed a tear when he thought of having no one to close his or Dapple's
eyes, when they had breathed their last breath.

All that night they sat there in somber reflection on the strange
fates of man and beast; and when dawn came Sancho found that he was in
a cave that had no outlet but which seemed to extend for miles
underneath the ground. He crawled with Dapple from one cavern or
compartment to another one; one dungeon was dark, the next one had a
bit of flickering light; and as he proceeded he kept calling aloud,
"God Almighty, help me!" at every step he took, fearing that he would
be plunged still deeper into the insides of the earth, into still
darker abysses. And then he wished that it had been his master instead
of himself who had landed in this spot, for he was sure that Don
Quixote would have welcomed such an adventure.

It so happened that Don Quixote was riding along the countryside that
day on Rocinante, and suddenly his steed's hoof grazed against a hole
in the earth. Rocinante might have fallen into the hole had not Don
Quixote swiftly pulled in the reins and held him back. As the knight
was passing, and about to continue on his journey, he turned in his
seat to observe the spot well, and then he was startled by a cry that
seemed to come from the depths of the earth and found an outlet
through this pit. Still more startled he was, when he recognized the
voice of his own squire Sancho! These were the words he heard: "Ho,
above there! Is there any Christian that hears me, or any charitable
gentleman that will take pity on a sinner buried alive, or an
unfortunate, disgoverned governor?"

Of course it never entered our valiant knight's mind, devout Catholic
that he was, that it was the voice of any Sancho Panza in the flesh.
He thought that his devoted squire had suddenly met with death, and
that his soul was now in Purgatory, and that it was from there that
these sounds emanated. So he answered that he would do all in his
power to have Sancho released from his pains.

This brought forth an emphatic and tearful denial from below. Sancho
swore that he had never died in his life. As if to corroborate that
his master was not a liar, Dapple at this moment brayed most
tellingly, and Don Quixote believed everything that Dapple told him in
that short space of time, for Don Quixote knew Dapple's braying as
well as if he had been his father. The knight errant assured Sancho
that he would get him out of his prison in a very short time, though
he thought it best to return to the castle first and get some men to
help him in the task. Sancho begged his master to hurry, for he was
afraid unto death, and could not stand the thought of being buried
there much longer.

As soon as the Duke heard what had happened to his governor, he was
extremely surprised, for he had had no news from the island of
Barataria about Sancho's departure. He sent men with ropes and tackle,
and after much trouble they finally succeeded in hoisting Sancho and
his beloved donkey out of the cave.

Surrounded by a crowd of children and others, they arrived at the
castle, where the Duke was awaiting them; but Sancho would not present
himself before him until he had seen that Dapple was being taken good
care of in the stable. Then he went before the Duke, and as soon as
the Duke had greeted him, Sancho commenced a speech that seemed to
last forever, stuffed with proverbs galore. In it he related to the
Duke everything that happened during the time he was governor, ending
it thus: "I have come by the knowledge that I should not give anything
to be a governor, not to say of an island, but of the whole world; and
that point being settled, kissing your Worship's feet, and imitating
the game of the boys when they say, 'Leap thou, and give me one,' I
take a leap out of the government and pass into the service of my
master Don Quixote. For after all, though in it I eat my bread in fear
and trembling, at any rate I take my fill; and, for my part, so long
as I am full, it is alike to me whether it is with carrots or with

When Sancho had finished his discourse Don Quixote was grateful, for
he was constantly worried that his squire might say something that
would cover both of them with discredit, and Sancho made no great
blunders in his speech this time.

The Duke and the Duchess both embraced Sancho with warmth, and he was
greatly touched when they told him that they would try to find him
another position, less responsible but more profitable, on their
estate; and they gave orders that he was to be well taken care of and
his wounds and bruises properly and carefully bandaged.



Again the feeling came over Don Quixote that he was wasting his life
while he was staying at the castle in luxury and ease as the Duke's
guest. Out yonder was the great, wide world in which adventures were
calling to him all the time. So it finally came about that after much
hesitation he requested of the Duke and his consort that they grant
him his release. They gave it to him, although they were sorry to see
him go, they said.

Early the following morning Sancho was soliloquizing in the courtyard
of the castle, when suddenly Don Quixote appeared, in full regalia,
ready to take to the road again for new adventures. The Duke and all
in the castle were observing the departure from the corridors.
Unobserved by Don Quixote, the majordomo gave Sancho a purse, in which
he counted no less than two hundred gold crowns.

When knight and squire had mounted, the fair Altisidora declaimed with
touching voice some verses of poetry which she had written in the
night, and in which she bewailed her cruel fate that had thrust her in
the path of the valorous Don Quixote. Each verse ended with a
denunciation of his coldness toward her, and a curse upon him and his
Dulcinea. Then the daring maiden had inserted lines in which she
accused the innocent knight of having taken possession of three
kerchiefs and a pair of garters belonging to her. Don Quixote blushed
with perplexity, but his squire came to the rescue and said that he
had the kerchiefs, but knew nothing about the garters. The Duke, who
was well initiated in the joke, now rose and announced that it was
beginning to seem like a serious matter; and if the knight had the
garters and did not wish to part with them, he, the Duke, would have
to defend the fair maiden's honor and challenge him to single combat.

Now Don Quixote was beside himself. Surely, he said, it would never
occur to him, who had enjoyed such unbounded, superlative hospitality
at the hands of one so illustrious as the Duke, to let such things
come to pass as to bear arms against him; and he swore again by
everything he could think of that he was innocent of what the maiden
had inferred. Here the damsel gave a little shriek, and announced in a
giggling voice that she had found the garters. Don Quixote was much
relieved, and so seemed the Duke (though in reality both he and the
Duchess were just about to burst from the pain that their own joke had
inflicted upon them).

Now the knight errant could depart without any smudge or stain on his
honor, and quickly and resolutely he gave Rocinante the spur, and his
steed gathered all the strength he had and turned around. Gallantly
saluting the Duke and the whole assembly with a sweep of his lance,
Don Quixote set off on the road to Saragossa, followed by the retired
governor, who sat on his Dapple's back as phlegmatically as if the two
were grown together.



Out on the open road Don Quixote was himself again, and he turned to
Sancho and began to discourse on freedom, telling his squire that it
was more precious than anything else in the world. And he ended by
saying: "Happy he to whom Heaven has given a piece of bread for which
he is not bound to give thanks to any but Heaven itself!"

Here Sancho broke his silence, for he felt that, in spite of what his
master had just said, a good deal of thanks was due to the majordomo
for the purse with the two hundred crowns, which he was carrying like
a plaster next to his heart.

While they were conversing thus, they suddenly came to a spot from
where they could see a great many men, dressed like laborers, lying on
the grass of a meadow, and partaking of their noonday meal. Here and
there on the grass were scattered some objects or figures covered with
white cloth, and as soon as Don Quixote observed them he could
constrain himself no longer but had to learn what they were. So he
politely approached the men and asked them what was hidden underneath
the white coverings, and was told that they were images of saints that
they were transporting to their village church; and in order not to
soil them, they had covered them thus.

The man took great pride in showing our knight the figures--there were
Saint George, Saint Martin, Saint James the Moorslayer, and Saint
Paul. Don Quixote spoke learnedly on each one of them. When he had
seen them all, he bade the men cover the images with the cloths again.
Then he declared that he considered it a happy omen to have come upon
the images; for, said he, they were knights like himself. There was
this difference, however, that while he fought with human weapons,
poor sinner that he was, they used divine ones. And he added that if
only his Dulcinea could be saved from her sufferings, perhaps his own
mind might be restored to its proper function, and a desire for a
milder and better life than he was leading now be the result. At this
Sancho reverently chirped: "May God hear and sin be deaf!"

The men, having finished their repast, took leave of Don Quixote and
Sancho and continued the journey to their village. They were not out
of sight before Sancho broke loose with praise for his master, who
knew everything under the sun, it seemed. Then he added: "In truth,
master, if what has happened to us to-day is to be called an
adventure, it has been one of the sweetest and pleasantest that has
befallen us in the whole course of our travels; we have come out of it
without having drawn sword, nor have we been left famishing. Blessed
be God that he has let me see such a thing with my own eyes!"

The conversation now turned to other things, and soon love became the
topic. Sancho could not understand why his master, as ugly as he was,
should have turned the head of the fair Altisidora; and why his master
had not fallen head over heels in love with her was entirely beyond
Sancho's comprehension. Had he himself had the same opportunity he
should not have foregone it, he could have promised his master. Here
Don Quixote tried to explain to Sancho that there were different kinds
of love: love of the mind, and of the body; but this explanation
seemed to remain a puzzle to the squire.

While they had been talking in this manner, they had come into a wood,
and suddenly Don Quixote rode into a green net which entangled him so
completely that he began to shout that he had been enchanted again. He
made ready to cut and slash with his sword, when two beautiful girls
dressed as shepherdesses came from amidst the trees and began to plead
with him not to tear the nets, which they had spread in the woods that
they might snare the little birds. There was a holiday in the
neighborhood, and they were to give a pageant and a play, they said,
and they wanted the birds to be actors in the play with them. Then
they courteously begged Don Quixote to be their guest and remain with
them; but Don Quixote in return told them that the urgency of his
calling made it necessary for him to refuse, whereupon he made them
aware of who he was. As soon as the girls heard that they had Don
Quixote of La Mancha in their midst, they became still more eager that
he should remain, for they had all read and heard of their illustrious
guest, they said, through the book that the whole of Spain and all the
world was devouring just then.

A gay youth, who was the brother of the young maidens, came up at this
moment and joined his sisters in their persuasions, and at last Don
Quixote gave in and consented to stay. The youth, who was attired as a
shepherd, brought Don Quixote to their tents, and after a morning of
gaiety a repast was served, at which the knight was given the place of

When the meal was over, Don Quixote rose and addressed the gathering
in his usual dignified manner. He chose for his topic gratitude, and
said that there was but one way in which he could show his full
appreciation of the hospitality he had enjoyed that day at their
hands: namely, to maintain in the middle of the highway leading to
Saragossa, for a period of two days, that these two damsels were--with
the exception of his lady Dulcinea--the most adorable and beautiful
maidens in the world.

Don Quixote had got so far in the course of his speech, when the
faithful Sancho could restrain his admiration for his master no
longer. Brimming over with enthusiasm, he burst out: "Is it possible
there is any one in the world who will dare to say and swear that this
master of mine is a madman? Tell me, gentlemen shepherds, is there a
village priest, be he ever so wise or learned, who could say what my
master has said; or is there a knight errant, whatever renown he may
have as a man of valor, who could offer what my master has offered
now?" This outburst of his squire's infuriated Don Quixote. He began
to foam at the mouth, and after having scolded the meek and meddlesome
Sancho, he told him abruptly to go at once and saddle Rocinante. His
hosts were astounded at his remarkable behavior and proposal, and did
all they could to stay him from carrying it out, but he was not to be
swayed. So they all followed at a distance to see what would happen to
the knight, who in his anger had not been slow to mount and disappear
with Sancho trailing behind on Dapple at his usual gait.

As soon as Don Quixote had posted himself in the middle of the road,
he shouted out his challenge. But no one who passed seemed to pay any
attention to what he said, much less were they inclined to take up the
challenge, if they heard it. Suddenly, however, the knight sighted a
troop of men on horseback, all armed with lances. They were coming
closer at a fast pace, and as soon as the shepherds and shepherdesses
saw them they withdrew in great haste. Sancho, overcome with some
innate foreboding of disaster, took refuge in the shade of Rocinante's
hindquarters; but Don Quixote stood resolute and held his ground.

Ahead of the oncoming troop rode a man, who, observing Don Quixote's
position, began to make violent signs to him to get away from the
road; and when he saw that he was not being understood or obeyed, he
yelled out with fierceness: "Get out of the way, you son of the devil,
or these bulls will knock you to pieces!"

But all Don Quixote was concerned about was his challenge, and
permitting no evasions, he retorted heroically: "Rabble! I care
nothing for bulls! Confess at once, scoundrels, that what I have
declared is true; else ye have to deal with me in combat."

Hardly had he spoken these words before the drove of bulls was on him
and Sancho, trampling them both to the ground as if they had been
figures of pasteboard; for they were no common bulls, they were fierce
animals that were being taken to a nearby village for a bull-fight on
the following day. Yet when they had passed, and the valiant knight
came to, he had lost none of his intrepidity, for as soon as he could
stand up he kept shouting at them to return and he would fight them
all alone.

The knight was so enraged and so humiliated to have been stepped on in
such an unromantic fashion, that he sat down and buried his head in
his hands; and Sancho could not persuade him to return to their hosts
to bid them farewell. And so he decided instead to be on his way to
Saragossa, and master and squire mounted again and continued their
journey dejectedly.



Don Quixote was extremely weighed down and oppressed by the disaster
of the morning. When they had ridden but a short way they came to a
place where there was a spring, and they dismounted to refresh their
dusty throats and to wash themselves. The knight was wearied, and
Sancho suggested that he lie down and rest for a while. The suggestion
pleased his master, who said he would do so if his squire would give
himself three or four hundred lashes with Rocinante's reins in the
meantime, as a help toward his Dulcinea's disenchantment. But after
some arguing, Sancho wiggled himself out of the business for the
moment, having pleaded an ill-nourished body--in spite of his constant
eating. He said it was, besides, no easy matter to flog oneself in
cold blood, but promised to make good some time, unexpectedly. Then
they both ate a little, and soon afterward they fell asleep beside
their faithful beasts. They awoke, refreshed, and made off to reach an
inn--and Sancho gave thanks to Heaven that Don Quixote took it for an
inn--that they had sighted in the distance before they went to sleep.

When they arrived at the inn Sancho at once took the beasts to the
stable and fed them, while Don Quixote retired to his room. When
supper time came the landlord brought in a stewpan which contained
cow-heels that tasted, he swore, like calves' feet; and the knight and
his squire gathered gluttonously around the meal. They had scarcely
began eating, however, when Don Quixote heard his name mentioned next
door, and, surprised, he listened and heard some one say: "What
displeases me most in this Second Part of 'Don Quixote of La Mancha'
is that it represents Don Quixote as now cured of his love for
Dulcinea del Toboso."

Like a flash the knight was on his feet, shouting to the adjoining
room: "Whoever he may be who says that Don Quixote of La Mancha has
forgotten Dulcinea del Toboso, I will teach him with equal arms that
what he says is very far from true; for his motto is constancy, and
his profession is to maintain the same with his life and never wrong

Immediately voices from the other room wished to know who was speaking;
and Sancho shouted back that it was his master, and that his master was
none other than Don Quixote of La Mancha himself. In the next instant two
gentlemen entered the room, and as soon as they perceived Don Quixote,
they fell on his neck and embraced him, saying that they were pleased and
proud beyond measure to meet so distinguished and illustrious a
personage, their own morning star of knight-errantry. One of the
gentlemen, Don Jeronimo, assured him that there was no doubt in his mind
that he was the real Don Quixote of the First Part, and not the
counterfeit one of the Aragonese Second Part. With these words he put his
copy of the Second Part, which he had just been reading, into Don
Quixote's hands and begged him to read it. Don Quixote took it and
glanced it through, and after having read a few pages, he returned it to
the gentleman, with the remark that he had already discovered three
things in the book that ought to be censured; and he said that when an
author could make such a colossal mistake as to speak of Sancho's wife as
Mari Guiterrez, one would be likely to doubt the veracity of every other
statement of his in the book.

When Sancho heard of this audacious libel, he became red in the face
with indignation. "A nice sort of historian, indeed!" he burst out.
"He must know a deal about our affairs when he calls my wife, Teresa
Panza, Mari Guiterrez! Take the book again, señor, and see whether I
am in it and whether he has changed my name!"

The gentleman looked at Sancho in an expectant manner, and said: "From
your talk, friend, no doubt you are Sancho Panza, Señor Don Quixote's

When Sancho affirmed this, saying he was proud of it, it was Don
Jeronimo's turn to become indignant; for it seemed to him nothing
short of blasphemy to take all the drollery out of the Sancho, whom he
saw before him here, he said, and who had furnished him with so many
enjoyable moments through his amusing talk, while he was reading the
First Part. The Sancho of the Second Part was a stupid character, a
fool with no sense of humor whatever, he declared; and his declaration
promptly brought forth a proverb from Sancho's lips, which summed up
his contempt for the new author. "Let him who knows how ring the
bells," he exclaimed.

The two gentlemen now invited the knight errant to join them at
supper, as they knew, they said, that the inn could afford nothing
that was befitting a warrior as illustrious as he. Always courteous,
Don Quixote acquiesced, and they withdrew to the adjoining room,
leaving Sancho and the landlord to sup by themselves. At supper Don
Quixote related to the two gentlemen his many strange adventures, and
they listened with the utmost interest; they could not help admiring
his elegant and finished speech, and at the same time were astounded
at the strange mixture of good sense and wit and absurd nonsense that
flowed from his lips.

When Sancho had finished his cow-heels, he betook himself to the room
where his master and the gentleman were supping; and as he entered he
asked Don Jeronimo: "If this author calls me glutton, as your Worships
say, I trust he does not call me drunkard too."

Don Jeronimo said that the author had been impertinent enough to do so,
although he assured Sancho that he could see by his face that the author
had lied. "Believe me," declared the squire, "the Sancho and the Don
Quixote of this history must be different persons from those that appear
in the one Cid Hamet Benengeli wrote, who are ourselves--my master,
valiant, wise, and true in love, and I, simple, droll, and neither
glutton nor drunkard."

The other gentleman, Don Juan, was of Sancho's opinion, and he added
that he thought no one but Cid Hamet, the original author, should be
permitted to write the history of Don Quixote's achievements--just as
Alexander issued an order that no one but Apelles should presume to
paint his portrait.

They carried on a conversation in this manner until quite late in the
night. Don Juan offered the Second Part to our hero to read, but Don
Quixote declined it, saying that it would only be flattering and
encouraging to the author if he should, by chance, learn that he had
read his book. Then they asked him where he would be bound for when he
left the inn; and when he told them Saragossa, they mentioned that the
author had given a description in the book of a tilting at the ring in
that city, in which he who was called Don Quixote had participated.

That made the knight change his intentions at once. Now he was
determined not to set foot in Saragossa: thus he would make the author
commit perjury, trap him as a complete liar, and hold him up to
ridicule before the whole world. The gentlemen thought this a most
ingenious way to treat the blaspheming author, and made a suggestion
that there were to be other jousts at Barcelona, to which he would be
welcomed; and Don Quixote announced that he would go there instead.
Then he begged leave in his usual courteous manner to retire, and
withdrew to his room.

Early on the following morning the knight rose, and bade good-by to
his two new friends by knocking at the partition that separated their
rooms, while Sancho paid the landlord for the lodging and the



For six days Don Quixote and Sancho traveled without anything
happening to them worth recording. At the end of the sixth day they
came to a grove of oak and cork trees, where they dismounted and
settled themselves for the night. Sancho, who had been nourished
plentifully that day, at once fell asleep, but Don Quixote's mind
wandered hither and thither into strange regions and imaginary places;
and he thought of the sad plight of his beloved one. The more he
considered the cruelty of his squire, the more enraged he became; and
at last he decided that the only thing for him to do was to strip
Sancho and administer the beating himself. With this intention he
began to undo the squire's garments.

Sancho, being awakened and realizing his master's foul play, now had
lost all desire for sleep. He reminded his master that the whipping
would have no effect toward Dulcinea's disenchantment, unless it was
applied voluntarily and by his own hand. But Don Quixote insisted that
there must be an end to this nonsense, for he had no desire to let his
peerless Dulcinea suffer because of his squire's uncharitable
disposition. And then he proceeded, with Rocinante's reins in his
hand, to give his squire, as he said, two thousand lashes on account
of the three thousand three hundred. But Sancho was on his feet in an
instant, and began to grapple with his master, and he crushed his
emaciated body almost to flatness in his firm grip. Then he suddenly
let him loose and despatched him with a kick to no mean distance, and,
still pursuing his victim, he there sat upon him. Don Quixote managed
at last to gather all the breath that had not been squeezed out of him
by the combat, and supported by that he ejaculated in a hoarse

"How now, traitor! Dost thou revolt against thy master and natural
lord? Dost thou rise against him who gives thee his bread?"

"I neither put down king, nor set up king," replied Sancho, himself
somewhat out of breath. And then he proceeded to dictate the peace
terms, and he extracted a promise from his natural lord never to try
to whip him again, neither awake nor asleep.

Then the victor disappeared in the grove and went to lie down against
a tree: but just as he had placed himself comfortably, he was
frightened almost to death by seeing two feet, with shoes and
stockings, dangling in the air above his head. He ran to another tree,
thinking he had been dreaming, and there he found a like apparition
haunting him. He began to scream aloud, calling upon his master for
help, and ran to search for him. Don Quixote asked him what had
frightened him, and the squire replied that all the trees were full of
feet and legs. Don Quixote calmly looked at the dead bodies in the
trees and told his squire that no doubt they were outlaws that had
been hanged by the authorities; and he took them to be a sign that
they were now close to Barcelona. They then lay down to rest for the

When they awoke at dawn, they found themselves surrounded by a band of
men who turned out to be highwaymen. The band stripped them of all
they possessed, and were just about to search Sancho further for
money, when a swarthy-looking man in his thirties appeared, mounted on
a splendid horse and armed with many pistols. It was their captain,
and none other than the notorious Roque Guinart, a man who had taken
to the life of banditry and hold-ups because of having been wronged by
the authorities.

When the bandit captain observed what his men were about to do to Sancho,
he commanded them to stop, and to return everything they had taken away
from the knight and his squire. He asked Don Quixote why he looked so
dejected, and the knight responded that he was grieved that he had been
taken unaware, saying that had he been armed with his lance and shield
and mounted on his Rocinante when he found himself surrounded by these
men, he would have defended himself to the last drop of his blood, in
accordance with all the rules of knight-errantry. And then he told Roque
that he was the Don Quixote of La Mancha who had filled the whole world
with the wonder of his achievements; and he thanked him for his great
courtesy and mercifulness.

Just then they heard the violent sound of hoofs clattering against the
hard road, and as they turned they beheld a youth, extremely pleasing
in appearance, who was coming their way in a wild gallop. As he
reached them, he flung himself from his horse and addressed Roque, who
then perceived that it was not a lad but a maiden. She said she was
the daughter of his friend Simon Forte, and named Claudia Jeronima,
and that she, unbeknown to her father, had fallen in love with and
become engaged to the son of her father's arch enemy, Clauquel
Torrellas, whose son was named Vicente. Yesterday, she went on, she
had learned that he had promised to marry another one, and full of
jealousy she had stolen upon him this morning in the guise that he now
saw her in and shot him in the presence of his servants near his
house. She had left him at once, and she now wanted Roque to procure
for her a safe-conduct that she might take refuge in France where she
had relatives. She also wanted to extract a promise from him to
protect her father from the wrath and revenge of the Torrellas.

Roque was evidently much taken with the girl, for he gave her a glance
full of admiration; nor had she failed to make an impression on Don
Quixote and Sancho. Don Quixote wanted at once to go in quest of the
knight and make him keep his troth, and Sancho added that his master
was an admirable match-maker. But Roque hastily took leave of them,
and accompanied only by the fair Claudia, he had soon come to the spot
where she had left Don Vicente. This young gentleman was surrounded by
some servants who had been attempting to carry him to his home, but he
had begged them to take him no further, for the pain was too great, he
said and he felt that he was dying. All were astounded at the sight
of the feared Roque, who dismounted with Claudia.

The fair maiden approached her lover, and clasping his hand, she said:
"Hadst thou given me this according to our compact thou hadst never
come to this pass." And then the young lady told Don Vicente what she
had heard; but he disavowed to her any intention to marry any one else
but herself. Hearing this she broke down completely, flung herself
upon his breast, and sobbed convulsively; and then she fainted.

When she came to, she found that her beloved one had passed away, and
her grief then knew no bounds. Again and again she would be overcome
by her feelings, and swoon so that they had to sprinkle water on her
face. Roque was moved to tears, and so were the servants, and Claudia
said that she would go into cloister for the rest of her life to atone
for her sin. Roque approved of her decision, and offered to conduct
her wherever she wished to go, but she declined his company, with many
thanks, and bade him farewell in tears. Roque then directed the
servants to take the body of Don Vicente to the dead man's father, and
returned to his band.

He found Don Quixote addressing his men on lawlessness, but they
seemed to be little impressed with his sermon. Soon afterward a
sentinel came up to his captain, and reported that people were coming
along on the road to Barcelona, and Roque, having made certain that
they were not armed troops out to enforce the law and in search of
bandits, gave order to capture the travelers and have them brought
before him.

Here the outlaw revealed himself again to Don Quixote as a naturally
kindly and tender-hearted man, for though the travelers possessed a
good deal of money, he assessed them but one hundred and forty crowns.
Of this money he gave the men of his band two crowns each; that left
twenty crowns over, and this he divided between some pilgrims who were
on their way to Rome and our worthy Sancho. The travelers were two
captains of Spanish infantry, and some titled ladies; and the women
felt so grateful to Roque for his generosity, and his unusual behavior
and courtesy touched them so, that they wanted to kiss his hand,
considering him in the light of a hero rather than a robber. Roque did
not forget to give them a safe-conduct to the leaders of his bands,
for there were many of them, operating all through that region.

One of Roque's men seemed dissatisfied with such leniency as he had
seen displayed, and voiced his opinion rather too loudly, for the
leader of the band heard it, and the offender's head was nearly cleft
open in the next second. The captain turned to Don Quixote and
remarked that that was the way he punished impudence; then he calmly
sat down and wrote a letter to a friend of his in Barcelona, telling
him of the early arrival there of the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha,
of whose exploits in knight-errantry the whole world knew; and, to be
exact, he fixed Saint John the Baptist's day as the very day on which
our knight would make his first appearance in the very midst of the
city of Barcelona under the auspices of him to whom he addressed this
letter, and who would be grateful for the infinite joy Don Quixote and
his droll squire Sancho Panza would afford him and the city. He sent
the letter by one of his trusted followers, who, disguised as a
peasant, made his way into Barcelona and delivered the letter to the
right person.



Don Quixote remained with Roque for three days, and they were hectic
days for our knight. Roque always slept apart from his men, for the
viceroy of Barcelona had placed a great price on his head, and Roque
was in constant fear that some one in his band would be tempted to
deliver him up. On the fourth day he and Don Quixote, accompanied by
Sancho and six of the band, made their way toward Barcelona; and on
the night of St. John's Eve they reached the city. There Roque took
farewell of the knight and his squire, and returned to his haunts in
the woods.

Throughout the night Don Quixote-kept guard over the city; and there
he was still sitting on Rocinante when dawn appeared on the horizon,
and Don Quixote and Sancho Panza for the first time in their lives
beheld the sea. It seemed to them it was ever so much greater than any
of the lakes they had seen in La Mancha. As the sun rose it was
suddenly greeted with the ringing of bells, the din of drums, the
sound of clarions, and the trampling and clatter of feet on the
streets; and from the galleys along the beach a mass of streamers in
varied colors waved its welcome, to the music and the noise of bugles,
clarions and trumpets from shipboard. Then cannons on ship and shore
began to thunder, and a constant fire was kept up from the walls and
fortress of the city. It was a noise and a spectacle that might have
over-awed any one, even a less simple-minded person than Sancho, who
stared open-mouthed at the wonders he beheld. He gasped when he saw
the galleys rowed about by their oarsmen on the water, and he told his
master he had never seen so many feet in his life. A troop of horsemen
in extravagant liveries rode past them, where they were standing, and
suddenly Don Quixote was startled by hearing some one call out in a
loud voice: "Welcome to our city, mirror, beacon, star and cynosure of
all knight-errantry in its widest extent! Welcome, I say, valiant Don
Quixote of La Mancha! Not the false, the fictitious, the apocryphal
one, but the true, the legitimate, the real one that Cid Hamet
Benengeli, flower of historians, has described to us!"

Don Quixote felt flattered by the attention he suddenly attracted, for
all eyes had turned to gaze upon his lean and queer person; although
it may be said here, in confidence, that the man who had recognized
the hero was no other than the one to whom the rogue Roque had
written. The cavalier divulged his identity to Don Quixote, and begged
him politely to accept his services while in Barcelona; and Don
Quixote replied with as much courtesy that he would follow him
wherever he pleased and be entirely at his disposal. Then the
horsemen closed in around him and they set out for the center of the
city, to the music of a gay tune played by the clarions and drums.

The Devil, however, was not asleep. He put temptation into the hearts
of some street urchins, who stole their way into the close proximity
of Rocinante's and Dapple's hindquarters, and there deposited a bunch
of furze under their tails, with the fatal result that their riders
were flung headlong into the crowd. Our proud hero, covered with dust
and shame, pulled himself together and went to pick the flowers from
the tail of his hack, while Sancho extracted the cause of Dapple's
capers from his own mount. Then they mounted again, the music
continued to play, and soon they found themselves at a large and
impressive house, which they learned was occupied by the cavalier, who
was a friend of Roque's.



The cavalier turned out to be one Don Antonio Moreno, a gentleman with
a great sense of humor, well read and rich. As soon as Don Quixote had
entered the house, Don Antonio persuaded him to discard the suit of
armor; then he took him out on the balcony, where he at once attracted
all the boys in the street and crowds of people, who gazed at him as
if he had been a monkey. The cavaliers passed in review before the
balcony, and the knight was given the impression that it was in his
special honor they were bedecked as they were, for he did not realize
that it was a holiday. Sancho was delighted beyond description. He was
treated royally by the servants, who thought that they had never met
any one quite as amusing as he. Don Antonio's friends were all
instructed to pay homage to Don Quixote and at all times to address
him as if he were a knight errant.

The flattery and honors were too much for the poor knight: they turned
his head completely, and he became puffed up with his own importance.
Sancho, too, amused Don Antonio and his guests exceedingly, and they
enjoyed particularly hearing about his escapades as governor.

After dinner that day, the host took Don Quixote into a distant room,
which contained no furniture except a table, on which was a pedestal
supporting a head made of what seemed to be bronze. After having acted
in the most mysterious manner, and having carefully ascertained that
all the doors to the room were shut and no one listening, Antonio
swore the knight to secrecy. Then he proceeded to tell Don Quixote
that the head he saw there before him had been made by a Polish
magician, and possessed the magic faculty of being able to answer any
question whispered into its ear. Only on certain days, however, did
its magic assert itself, and the following day, which was the day
after Friday--it had been astrologically worked out--would again
witness the miracle. Don Antonio asked the knight whether there was
anything he should especially like to ask the head; if so, he could
put the question to it on the morrow. Don Quixote seemed sceptical,
but made no comment, and they returned to the other guests.

In the afternoon the knight errant was placed on a tall mule, bedecked
with beautiful trimmings, and himself encased in a heavy and
uncomfortably warm garb of yellow cloth; then, unbeknown to him, they
pinned on his back a parchment with this inscription in large letters:

As they were parading through the streets the knight's vanity swelled
more and more, for from every nook and corner there came great shouts
of recognition. Soon he was unable to restrain his vainglorious
nature, and he turned to his host and remarked to him with much
satisfaction: "Great are the privileges knight-errantry involves, for
it makes him who professes it known and famous in every region of the
earth. See, Don Antonio, even the very boys of this city know me
without ever having seen me." Finally the crowds increased so that Don
Antonio was obliged to remove the parchment, and soon they had to take
refuge in his house.

In the evening Don Antonio's wife gave a dance, and it was amusing to
see the tall and lank hero move about on the ballroom floor; the men
gave him the opportunity to dance every dance, for they themselves
enjoyed watching him better than dancing. At last Don Quixote was so
exhausted both by the dancing and by the lovemaking that the ladies
had imposed on him--and how they delighted in hearing him avow his
great love for Dulcinea--that Sancho had to take him to his room and
put him to bed.

The next day Don Antonio took his wife, Don Quixote, and a few
intimate friends into the secret chamber, and after many mysterious
preliminaries, the questioning of the head began. All seemed
particularly interested in what Don Quixote would have to ask, and
felt rewarded when his turn came, for this is what he demanded: "Tell
me, thou that answerest, was that which happened to me in the cave of
Montesinos the truth or a dream? Will my squire Sancho's whipping be
accomplished without fail? Will the disenchantment of Dulcinea be
brought about?"

In a mysterious voice that seemed to come from a great distance, the
head returned these answers: "As to the question of the cave, there is
much to be said; there is something of both in it. Sancho's whipping
will proceed leisurely. The disenchantment of Dulcinea will attain its
due consummation."

Don Quixote heaved a sigh and declared that if only his peerless one
were disenchanted, it would be all the good fortune he could wish for.
Then Sancho tried his luck; but at the conclusion of Sancho's audience
with the head, he did not seem properly awed, and his master became
displeased with his pretentious expectations and reprimanded him
severely in the presence of the whole company.

All the while Sancho's incessant talking and his master's exalted
behavior kept every one in an uproarious humor. The joke that Don
Antonio had arranged consisted in having a student, a young nephew of
Don Antonio's, placed in a chamber underneath the one in which the
head was, to receive the questions and speak the replies through a
tube that led from the inside of the head to the room below. Soon
after this form of amusement had taken place, it was agreed upon by
the gentlemen of the city to arrange for a tilting at the ring, for
they were convinced that such an exhibition would afford greater
opportunities for mirth and laughter than anything else they might
think of.

One day Don Quixote and Sancho, accompanied by two of Don Antonio's
servants, were walking on foot through the city, when they suddenly
passed a printing shop; and, never having seen one, the knight entered
with Sancho and the servants. He was as curious as usual, and asked
the printer innumerable questions about the books that he was
printing. He saw some of the printers reading the proofs of a book,
and he turned to them and inquired what the title of the book was.
They told him it was the Second Part of "The Ingenious Gentleman Don
Quixote of La Mancha," adding that is was written by a certain person
of Tordesillas. Upon hearing this, Don Quixote grew quite cold in his
demeanor, and having moralized that fiction resembling truth is always
greater than absurdly untruthful stories, he uttered a hope that the
book would be burned to ashes. And then he turned his back on the
astonished men and left the shop in great haste.



The afternoon of that same day Don Antonio took Don Quixote and Sancho
on board one of the galleys, amid all the honors that accompany the
visits of great and famous personages. There were fanfares, and
cheers, and the firing of guns, and all the high-ranking officers of
the army and navy who were in the city had been appealed to by Don
Antonio Moreno and turned out to pay him their respects.

Don Quixote was delighted. He could scarcely find words to express his
appreciation of such a magnificent and royal reception; and Sancho was
almost carried away by the honors that were being paid his master. But
when he saw all the men at the oars--stripped to the skin by the
captain's command--he became afraid, for they seemed to him like so
many devils.

When Don Quixote and Sancho Panza had been presented to all the
dignitaries, the captain escorted them to a platform on which he
begged them to take their seats beside him. Sancho sat at the edge of
the platform, next to one of the rowing devils (who had been
instructed in advance by the captain what to do) and suddenly he felt
himself lifted in the air by a pair of strong, muscular arms. The next
instant he was in the clutches of another devil; and passing from
hand to hand, he went the rounds of the crew with such swiftness that
the poor superstitious Sancho did not know whether he was dead,
dreaming, or alive. Sancho's aërial expedition did not come to an end
until he had been most unceremoniously deposited on the poop, where he
landed in a strangely unbalanced condition--to the tremendous
amusement of the crew and the onlookers. He was so dazed that it is
doubtful whether he would have known his name, if he had been asked.

Seeing what had happened to his squire, Don Quixote thought it best to
forestall himself from being put through any such ceremony; so he
stood up, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and announced with fire
in his eyes that any one who dared to attempt such a thing to him
would suffer by having his head cut off. He had hardly finished his
sentence before a noise was heard that frightened Sancho almost into
insensibility. He thought that Heaven was coming off its hinges and
about to fall on his sinful head. And even Don Quixote trembled with
something closely akin to fear, and grew (if that were possible) pale
under his yellow hue.

What the crew had done was to strike the awning and lower the yard and
then hoist it up again with as much clatter and speed as they could
produce, yet without uttering any human sound. This being done, the
boatswain gave orders to weigh anchor, and as he went about on deck
signaling with a whistle, he continually lashed and beat the backs of
the naked oarsmen with a whip he had in his hand.

When Sancho saw all the red oars moving, he took them to be the feet
of enchanted beings, and he thought to himself: "It is these that are
the real enchanted things, and not the ones my master talks of. What
can those wretches have done to be whipped in that way; and how does
that one man who goes along there whistling dare to whip so many? I
declare this is Hell, or at least Purgatory!"

But when Don Quixote noticed his squire's interest in the naked creatures
at the oars, he turned and said to him softly: "Ah, Sancho my friend, how
quickly and cheaply you might finish off the disenchantment of Dulcinea,
if you would strip to the waist and take your place among those gentlemen!
Amid the pain and sufferings of so many you would not feel your own much;
and, moreover, perhaps the sage Merlin would allow each of these lashes,
being laid on with a good hand, to count for ten of those which you must
give yourself at last."

But Sancho was not to be persuaded, and the general of the fortress,
who was eager to know why Sancho was urged to lash himself, could not
wait for a reply to his question, for there loomed up on the horizon a
ship which attracted his attention, and he immediately gave orders to
the captain to steer down upon it.

After an adventure on the seas, the first they had ever experienced,
Don Quixote and Sancho came back to Barcelona that afternoon, and
returned to the house of their host, escorted by the Viceroy, the
General and the other high dignitaries.



A few days after Don Quixote had visited the galley, he was riding along
the beach one morning on Rocinante dressed in his armor, when suddenly he
observed coming toward him a knight, also in full regalia, with a shining
moon painted on his shield. As he came close to Don Quixote, he held in
his horse, and spoke to our knight thus: "Illustrious knight, and never
sufficiently extolled Don Quixote of La Mancha, I am the Knight of the
White Moon, whose unheard-of achievements will perhaps recall him to thy
memory. I come to do battle with thee and prove the might of thy arm, to
the end that I make thee acknowledge and confess that my lady, let her be
who she may, is incomparably fairer than thy Dulcinea del Toboso."

And then the Knight of the White Moon went on to say that should he
conquer Don Quixote, the Knight of the Lions must retire to his native
village for a period of one year, and live there in peace and quiet,
away from all knightly endeavors and deeds. Should, however, Don
Quixote turn out to be the victor, he, the challenger, would gladly
forfeit his head, as well as the renown of his many deeds and
conquests, his arms and horse to him. He bade Don Quixote consider
the challenge and give a speedy answer, for he had but that day at his
disposal for the combat.

Don Quixote was taken aback at the audacity and arrogance with which
the knight had stated his demands, particularly when he took into
consideration that he had never in his whole life heard him even
spoken of, much less had he heard of the deeds and victorious combats
he had named. But he accepted the challenge with calm pride on the
conditions the Knight of the White Moon had given, barring the one
which involved transferring his renown to Don Quixote's shoulders in
case of his being vanquished. To our knight that seemed like taking
too great chances, since he had no idea what the nature of the
challenger's deeds might be, and since he was thoroughly satisfied
with his own achievements.

It so happened that the Viceroy had observed the Knight of the White
Moon in conversation with Don Quixote, and thinking that some one had
planned another joke on him, he hastened to Don Antonio's house, and
got him to accompany him to the beach, where they found the two
knights just taking their distance, and about to commence the combat.
Don Antonio was as startled when he saw the other knight as the
Viceroy had been, and neither one could make up his mind whether the
whole thing was a joke, or not, for no one there seemed to know who
the Knight of the White Moon was. However, the two gentlemen at last
decided it could be nothing but a prank, planned by some gentleman for
his own amusement. The Viceroy then turned to the knight and, learning
that the combat was being fought to decide a question of precedence
of beauty, bade them set to if both of them still remained unshaken
and inflexible in their convictions. The two combatants, having
thanked the Viceroy for his permission, separated and again took up
the necessary distance. Their horses wheeled around and the knights
came against each other with all the speed their mounts were capable
of. But the Knight of the White Moon was mounted on a steed that
completely outshone the poor Rocinante, for when they clashed, the
poor hack fell from the mere force of the contact, and Don Quixote
leaped over his head onto earth. At once the unknown knight held his
lance over his visor and threatened him with death unless he confessed
to being vanquished and acknowledged that he would abide by the
conditions of the combat.

In a feeble voice Don Quixote answered him that in spite of his defeat
Dulcinea still was the most beautiful woman in the world, but that now
that his honor had been taken away from him, he might as well die; and
he begged the knight to drive home the blow of his lance. But the
Knight of the White Moon was a generous gentleman. He said he would
not have our hero deny the beauty of his Dulcinea in deference to his
own lady; all that he asked was that Don Quixote return to his village
of La Mancha and give up knight-errantry as he had promised. Don
Quixote rose in a sorry and battered condition and swore that he would
keep his word like a true knight errant; and in the next instant the
mysterious Knight of the White Moon set off toward the city at a quick

As soon as the unknown knight had left, the Viceroy, Don Antonio and
Sancho hastened to Don Quixote's side. They found him covered with
perspiration and stiff in all his limbs. Rocinante had not yet
stirred, for he, too, was in a deplorable condition. Sancho for once
had lost his speech, and all that had happened to his master in so
short a time seemed to him proof that the enchanters were still
pursuing him. Now that his master for some time to come was to be
confined to their own village, there would be no chance for him to
redeem the promise he had made to his squire. Altogether it seemed to
Sancho a sad state of affairs.

Don Quixote was in such a dilapidated condition that he had to be
carried into the city in a hand-chair which the Viceroy had sent for,
and they all escorted him to the house of Don Antonio.



In the city the Viceroy and Don Antonio tried to locate the Knight of
the White Moon, and when they had found the hostel at which he was
staying Don Antonio went to call on him and learned that he was the
bachelor Samson Carrasco, from the very same village as Don Quixote.
The bachelor, having explained his aims regarding the knight, packed
his arms in a knapsack, took leave as soon as he had told his story,
and set off at once for La Mancha, mounted on a mule.

A few days later, much to the sorrow of Sancho--who had never been so
well fed in his life--Don Quixote and he took a fond farewell of their
estimable and generous host who had heaped so many honors on them and
who had enjoyed himself so tremendously at their expense. This time it
was a sad and lonely journey on which they started. Don Quixote was
mounted on Rocinante, who had somewhat recovered from his shock, but
Sancho had to tread the trail on foot, for his Dapple had to serve as
a carrier for the discarded armor of our late and lamented valiant
Knight of the Lions.



Toward the end of the fifth day Don Quixote was resting in the shade
of some trees, and as always happened when he lay down to rest, his
thoughts turned to the disenchantment of his Dulcinea and a feeling of
impatience with his selfish and uncharitable squire rose up within
him. He pleaded with Sancho and implored him to go through with the
ordeal bravely; but Sancho was unflinching in his stubbornness and
insisted he could see no reason why he should be coupled with the
disenchantment of the peerless fair one. Thus Don Quixote could only
pray that his squire might be moved by compassion to perform some day
the deed that would liberate his lady.

While discussing this subject so close to his heart Don Quixote had
decided to pursue his journey, and while they were traveling along on
the road to their village they again engaged in conversation. Suddenly
they found themselves passing the spot where they had been trampled on
by the bulls, but Don Quixote, not wishing to have his thoughts return
to anything so bitter, turned to Sancho and remarked that this was
where they had encountered the gay shepherds and shepherdesses. And
the next instant he had decided to emulate their example and turn
shepherd himself, now that his calling of knight errant had come to an
end; he would buy some ewes, he said, and together they would retire
to some quiet pastoral nook where the woods and the fields met, and
where pure crystal water sprang from the ledge of a rock and the
fragrance of flowers was in the air. And there he would sing to
Dulcinea, his platonic and only love. The thought of a life so calm
and so far away from danger and knightly adventures pleased Sancho so
greatly and made his enthusiasm run so high that he could not restrain
a row of proverbs from falling from his lips. It was a flow so
incessant that Don Quixote at last felt obliged to ask for a truce.

Night had now fallen, and Don Quixote thought it best to withdraw from
the roadway and take refuge for the night some distance away from it.
Having supped, Sancho at once fell asleep, but his master sat up all
that night, thinking of Dulcinea and making up rhymes to the
sweetness of her memory.



Don Quixote could not bear to see his squire sleep so restfully while
he was being weighted down by all the cares of the world. So he woke
Sancho, whose stolid unconcern about Dulcinea again was brought home
to him, and almost went on his knees in order to induce him to scourge
himself. He nearly wept in his efforts to have Sancho inflict the
meager amount of three or four hundred lashes upon himself; but as
ever the cruel squire remained unmoved. Don Quixote did everything in
his power to entice him to do this beautiful deed of sacrifice. He
held forth to him what a blessed night it would be for them, if he
would only comply with his master's request, for then, Don Quixote
suggested, they could spend the remainder of it singing, thus making
this the beginning of the pastoral life to which they were about to
devote themselves. But Sancho said he was no monk; and the idea of
getting up in the middle of the night to perform such rituals did not
appeal to him, he frankly avowed. The bewailings of his master, both
in Castilian and in Latin, made no impression upon the hard-hearted
Sancho, who remained as firm as the rock of Gibraltar, as far as the
disenchantment was concerned.

Don Quixote had just made up his mind that it was a useless task to
try to prevail upon Sancho at that hour to do his duty, when suddenly
there was heard a tremendous and terrifying noise, which increased as
it seemed to come closer. Sancho was so frightened that he at once
took refuge behind Dapple, entrenching himself between the pack-saddle
and his master's discarded armor; and Don Quixote got palpitation of
the heart, and began to shiver. As Sancho peeped from behind his
entrenchments and Don Quixote took courage to look, the grunting drove
of six hundred pigs--for that is what it was--was so close upon them
that in the next moment they found themselves knocked to the ground;
but it was some time before all of the snorting, disrespectful animals
had passed their dirty feet over the prostrate bodies of the knight,
his squire and their beasts and provisions.

Sancho rose first, smeared with dirt, and having been stirred to
unusual depths by the condition in which he found himself, he begged
his master to let him take his sword, saying he felt he had to kill
some of the pigs in order to be soothed. The exceedingly bad manners
they had displayed and especially the fact that they had crushed all
the provisions into nothingness, had produced an ire in Sancho that
seemed wellnigh irrepressible.

But Don Quixote calmed his squire with these words, spoken with a
melancholy air: "Let them be, my friend. This insult is the penalty of
my sin, and it is the righteous chastisement of Heaven that jackals
should devour a vanquished knight, and wasps sting him and pigs
trample him under foot."

To this Sancho Panza retorted pensively: "I suppose it is the
chastisement of Heaven, too, that flies should prick the squires of
vanquished knights, and lice eat them, and hunger assail them. If we
squires were the sons of the knights we serve, or their very near
relations, it would be no wonder if the penalty of their misdeeds
descended upon us, even to the fourth generation. But what have the
Panzas to do with the Quixotes? Well, let us lie down again and sleep
out what little of the night there is left, and God will send us dawn
and we shall be all right."

Sancho lay down and slept, but his master sat up and commenced his
emulation of the life of a shepherd by singing the song he had
composed to his great love, accompanying it with his own sighs, and
many wet tears. At last daylight came, and the sun awakened them both.
Sancho began to rub his eyes, and they both got up and made ready to
journey further. But before leaving Sancho again cursed the pigs for
having ruined his stores.

He and his master had traveled the whole day, when they encountered a
number of men on horseback, and four or five men on foot, all heavily
armed. Don Quixote's heart ached, for he could not forget his promise
to the Knight of the White Moon. The men who were mounted approached
our hero and Sancho, and surrounded them without speaking a word. Don
Quixote attempted to ask a question, but one of them warned him to be
silent by putting a finger to his lips, while another one pointed his
lance against the knight's breast. Still another one took Rocinante by
the bridle; while Sancho was being treated in the same manner by some
of the others. Both Don Quixote and Sancho began to be worried as to
the outcome of this adventure, for the whole proceeding seemed to them
utterly mysterious.

They rode all that day, unable to make out where they were being
taken, or who their mysterious captors were, and at last night came.
All the while the men were calling them all kinds of names, such as
"bloodthirsty lions," "cannibals," "murderous Polyphemes" etc.; and
Sancho was scared out of his wits, while Don Quixote was at his wits
ends. Both were convinced that some terrible misfortune was in store
for them, and they could only pray that they would get out of it as
easily as possible.

Before they knew it, it was midnight, and soon after that Don Quixote
recognized a castle, which he saw in the distance, as that of the
Duke. He was amazed when he found that the men were taking him there,
and he said to himself: "God bless me! What does this mean? It is all
courtesy and politeness in this house; but with the vanquished, good
turns into evil, and evil into worse." They entered the court, and
found it arrayed in such a manner that they could not help being
amazed and speechless, and they felt fear creeping into their hearts.



As soon as the horsemen had dismounted, they and the men on foot
carried Don Quixote and Sancho bodily into the center of the court,
which was illuminated with hundreds of torches and lamps placed all
around it. In the very center there was a catafalque, elevated to a
height of several yards above the ground and covered by a huge canopy
of black velvet. To the catafalque steps led from all around, and on
the steps were hundreds of wax tapers burning in silver candlesticks.
On the catafalque lay the dead body of a beautiful maiden. On one side
of the stage there was a large platform on which sat two figures, with
scepters in their hands and crowns on their heads: judging by this,
Don Quixote thought they must be royal personages. On the side of this
platform were two empty chairs, to which Don Quixote and Sancho were
led. And when they had seated themselves and turned around to observe
what was going to happen, they were suddenly startled by seeing their
friends, the Duke and the Duchess, mount the platform and seat
themselves next to the royalty.

Don Quixote and Sancho both paid them homage by rising and bowing
profoundly, and the ducal pair returned their compliment with a
slight bow of the head. Following them came a long row of attendants.
Then suddenly Don Quixote came to realize that the corpse was none
other than that of the fair Altisidora, whose love he had scorned, and
that shocked him greatly.

Some one connected with the ceremonies passed at that moment and threw
a robe of black buckram covered with painted red flames of fire over
Sancho and, removing his cap, put on his head a miter of the kind that
those who were undergoing the sentence of the Holy Office wore. At the
same time he whispered in Sancho's ear that if he opened his lips, his
life would not be safe.

At first Sancho, seeing all the flames that seemed to be licking his
body, got frightened, but when he found that no heat ensued and
nothing else happened, his worries ceased. In the next moment his and
his master's attention was attracted by low, sweet sounds of music and
singing that seemed to vibrate from underneath the catafalque; and
then there appeared a youth with a harp, and he sang a song that dealt
with the cruelty of Don Quixote toward the fair Altisidora, who now
was dead from a broken heart.

When he had sung of her charms, one of the two who seemed like kings
rose from his seat and spoke. He, Minos, who sat in judgment with
Rhadamanthus, now begged the latter to stand up and announce what must
be done in order to affect the resuscitation and restoration of the
damsel Altisidora. As soon as he had declaimed all he had to say, he
sat down, and in the next moment Rhadamanthus rose and decreed that
all the officials gather quickly and attach the person of Sancho
Panza, as through him alone Altisidora's restoration could be
effected, he said, by his receiving twenty-four smacks in the face,
twelve pinches and six pin-thrusts in the back and arms.

Nobody but Sancho objected to the King's proclamation; but Sancho was
emphatic enough for a multitude. "Body of me!" he replied unhesitatingly.
"What has mauling my face got to with the resurrection of this damsel?
The old woman takes kindly to my persecution; they enchant Dulcinea, and
whip me in order to disenchant her. Altisidora dies of ailments God was
pleased to send her, and to bring her to life they must give me
four-and-twenty smacks, and prick holes in my body with pins, and raise
weals on my arms with pinches! Try those jokes on a brother-in-law; I am
an old dog, and its no use with me."

But Rhadamanthus was bent in carrying out his threat. He gave a sign
to one of the attendants, and in the next moment a procession of
duennas started toward Sancho with raised hands. Sancho saw them
coming against him, he grew frantic, and began to bellow like a bull,
crying out: "I might let myself be handled by all the world; but allow
duennas to touch me? Not a bit of it! Scratch my face, as my master
was served in this very castle; run me through the body with burnished
daggers; pinch my arms with red-hot pincers; I shall bear all in
patience to serve these gentlefolk; but I will not let duennas touch
me, though the devil himself should carry me off!"

Here Don Quixote thought it was time for him to add his plea to that
of the King, and he began to reason with Sancho. At last he subdued
him somewhat, and by that time the duennas had reached the spot where
Don Quixote and Sancho were seated, and one of them came up,
curtsied, and gave the poor squire a smack on the face that nearly
unseated him, and that made him exclaim: "Less politeness and less
paint, Señora Duenna. By God, your hands smell of vinegar-wash!"

No sooner had Sancho uttered these words than he was smacked and
pinched by nearly all the rest of them, until at last he lost his
temper and seized a lighted torch, with which he pursued the flying
duennas in an uncontrollable rage, crying: "Begone, ye ministers of
Hell! I am not made of brass not to feel such out-of-the-way

But just then Altisidora--who probably was tired of lying on her back
such a long time--moved, and in the next moment exclamations were
heard from all in the court: "Altisidora is alive! Altisidora lives!"

Now that the great miracle had been attained, Rhadamanthus turned to
Sancho and bade him still his anger; and Don Quixote again entreated
Sancho, since he so nobly had proven that virtue now was ripe in him,
to go to work and disenchant his Dulcinea in the same breath. To this
Sancho replied:

"That is trick upon trick, I think, and not honey upon pancakes. A
nice thing it would be for a whipping to come now, on the top of
pinches, smacks, and pin-proddings! You had better take a big stone
and tie it round my neck, and pitch me into a well; I should not mind
it much, if I am to be always made the cow of the wedding for the cure
of other people's ailments. Leave me alone; or else by the Lord I
shall fling the whole thing to the dogs, come what may!"

By this time Altisidora had entirely recovered from her death and was
now sitting up on the catafalque. The music was again heard, the
voices sang, and all came forward to help the young maiden down from
her elevated position.

Altisidora acted as if she were just coming out of a long, long sleep;
and when she saw the Kings and the Duke and the Duchess she bowed her
head to them in respect. Then she asked the Lord to forgive Don
Quixote for his cruelty, while she praised and thanked Sancho Panza
for his sacrifice, and offered to give him six smocks of hers to make
into shirts for himself, adding that if they were not quite whole,
they were at least all clean. On hearing this, Sancho fell on his
knees and kissed her hands; and then one of the attendants approached
him, at the order of the Duke, and asked him to return the red robe
and the miter. Sancho, however, wanted to keep them to show to his
villagers as a remembrance of his marvelous experience; and when the
Duchess heard of his desire she commanded that they be given to her
friend as a token of her everlasting esteem.

Soon everybody had left the court and retired to their quarters, and
the Duke had Don Quixote and Sancho shown to their old chambers.



Sancho slept that night in the same chamber with Don Quixote. It was
some time before he went asleep, however, for the pain of the pinching
and smacking was quite evident. Don Quixote was inclined to talk, but
Sancho begged him to let him sleep in peace for the remainder of the
night, and at last both master and servant fell into slumber.

In the meantime it might be told how it came about that Don Quixote
came to visit the ducal castle again. The bachelor Samson Carrasco,
having learned as much as he could from the page that carried the
letter to Teresa Panza of the whereabouts of the hero, decided that
the time had come for another combat with him. Thus he procured a new
suit of armor and a fresh horse and set out to find the Duke's castle.
Having reached it, he had a long conversation with the Duke, wherein
he told him it was his great desire to bring Don Quixote back to his
village and his friends, hoping that if he could defeat him in battle
Don Quixote could be made to return of his own free will and in time
be cured of his strange affliction. He then followed him to Saragossa,
for which city he had set out when he left the Duke's castle, but
finally traced him to Barcelona, where the bachelor encountered him
with the result that he promised to return to his village and give up
knight-errantry for a year.

On his way home, the bachelor, at the Duke's request, had stopped at
the castle to inform him of the outcome of the combat, and it was then
that the Duke decided to play the knight and his squire another joke.
The Duke had his men stationed everywhere on the road that led from
Barcelona, and it was thus that they were able to bring in Don Quixote
in the manner and at the hour that they did.

When daylight arrived the morning after Altisidora's coming to life,
Don Quixote awoke and found her in his presence; and the instant he
saw her he showed his modesty and his confusion by pulling the sheet
over his head. But while Don Quixote was not inclined to converse with
a maiden so early in the morning, Sancho showed no aversion to it
whatever, for he bombarded Altisidora with all kinds of impertinent
questions as to what was going on in Hell when she was there. Of
course Altisidora denied having any intimate knowledge of this place,
for in spite of her immodesty she had only got as far as the gates,
she said.

Don Quixote now entered into the conversation and asked why the fair
Altisidora had been so persistent in her love, when she knew that he
would never change or give up his beloved Dulcinea, to whom he
maintained he was born to belong. When she heard Don Quixote talk in
this manner, Altisidora grew very angry with him, and exclaimed:
"God's life! Don Stockfish, soul of a mortar, stone of a date, more
obstinate and obdurate than a clown asked a favor when he has his
mind made up! If I fall upon you I shall tear your eyes out! Do you
fancy, then, Don Vanquished, Don Cudgeled, that I died for _your_
sake? All that you have seen to-night has been make believe; I am not
the woman to let the black of my nail suffer for such a camel, much
less die!"

Sancho interrupted her here and said he could well believe that; then
he added: "All that about lovers pining to death is absurd. They may
talk of it, but as far as doing it--Judas may believe that!"

Now the Duke and the Duchess entered, and after an animated conversation
during which Sancho's amusing sayings as usual captivated his
distinguished friends, Don Quixote begged leave to be on his way to his
village. They granted him his request, and then they asked him whether he
had forgiven Altisidora for having tried to capture his love. He replied
saying that this lady's lack of virtue had its root in her idleness, and
he recommended that the Duchess see to it that Altisidora was put to
making lace or given some other employment. Sancho approved of his
master's advice, and remarked sagely that he never had seen any lacemaker
die for love; and he further illustrated the truth of Don Quixote's
remark by his own experience on that score: when he was digging, he
vowed, he never bothered with the thought of his old woman. The testimony
of two such staunch friends of hers as Don Quixote and Sancho made the
Duchess promise that hereafter she would keep the fair Altisidora
employed so that no foolish thoughts might take her away from the path of
virtue. As soon as the fair maiden heard her mistress speak thus,
however, she assured her that there was no longer any need of her being
worked to death in order to divert her thought from the person of our
knight errant, for his cruelty to her had been such that the very thought
of that had now blotted him out of her memory forever. And, pretending to
wipe a tear from her eye, she made a curtsy to the Duchess and left the

It was now time for dinner, and soon afterward Don Quixote, having
dined with the Duke and the Duchess, made his departure from the
castle with Sancho, and started again for his home.



Don Quixote and Sancho traveled along, both in a state of depression.
Don Quixote was sad because he had been forced to give up the glories
of knight-errantry and chivalry; Sancho because Altisidora had not
kept her word when she promised to give him the smocks. To Sancho it
seemed a terrible injustice that physicians should be paid even if
their patients died, and here he had brought back a human being from
the dead, and was being rewarded in this ungrateful manner!

But Don Quixote's sadness was suddenly brightened by a hope that he
might at last be able to prevail upon Sancho to bring about the
disenchantment of Dulcinea. Knowing Sancho's covetousness, he offered
him money as a bribe. Now Sancho became interested, and consented,
for the love of his wife and children, to whip himself at a price of a
quarter-real a lash, generously throwing the five lashes he had
already given himself into the bargain.

"O blessed Sancho! O dear Sancho!" exclaimed Don Quixote. "How we
shall be bound to serve thee, Dulcinea and I, all the days of our
lives that Heaven may grant us! But look here, Sancho: when wilt thou
begin the scourging? For if thou wilt make short work of it, I will
give thee a hundred reals over and above."

Sancho swore that he would begin the scourging that very night, and
begged his master that he arrange it so that they spend the night in
the open.

Night came at last, and when they had supped, Sancho proceeded to make
a sturdy whip out of Dapple's halter. When he had finished this task
he made off for a distant part of the woods. He left his master with
such a determined look in his eyes that Don Quixote thought it best to
warn him not to go too fast but to take a breathing-space between
lashes so that he would not cut his body to pieces. He was afraid
also, he said, that Sancho might become so enthusiastic over what he
was doing, or so anxious to come to the end of the lashes that he
might overtax his strength, collapse and die; and he begged Sancho
particularly not to do that, for then he would have gone through all
his suffering in vain. When Sancho had stripped himself to the waist,
Don Quixote placed himself where he could hear the sound of the
lashes, and counted them on his rosary that Sancho would make neither
too much nor too little effort to disenchant Dulcinea.

After half a dozen lashes, Sancho felt that he had inflicted a
sufficient measure of pain upon himself already, and demanded a higher
price for his service. Don Quixote told Sancho that he would pay him
twice the amount promised; and the squire began again. But this time
he did not whip himself but let the lashes fall on a tree; and with
each lash he gave out the most heartrending cries, and uttered such
groans that his master began to feel the pain of his squire's torture
in his own heart. When he had counted a thousand lashes or thereabout,
he was quite worried about Sancho and begged him to stop for the
present, but Sancho told his master he might as well brave the
remainder of the ordeal now.

Seeing his squire in such a sacrificing mood, Don Quixote retired at
his request, and Sancho continued with the lashing, which he
administered to a perfectly innocent tree with such brutality and
ferocity that the bark flew in all directions. All the while he gave
vent to his pain by fierce shrieks, and then there came one long
agonizing cry, which nearly rent Don Quixote's heart, and Sancho
exclaimed piteously: "Here dies Sancho, and all with him!" Don Quixote
hastened to his squire's side, and insisted for the sake of his
unsupported wife and children that he go no further, but to wait until
some other time with the rest. Sancho retorted with a request that his
master cover his shoulders with his cloak, as the exertion had been
too great and had made him perspire freely, and he did not wish to run
the risk of catching cold. Don Quixote did as he was asked and begged
Sancho to lie down; then he covered him with the cloak.

At dawn they resumed their journey, and when they had traveled three
leagues, they came to an inn. Don Quixote did not take it for a castle
this time; as a matter of fact, ever since he had found himself
vanquished, he had begun to talk of and see things in a more rational
way. They entered, and when Sancho saw the painted pictures on the
wall he remarked to his master that not long from now there would be
paintings picturing their deeds in every tavern and inn in the
country. Don Quixote then turned to his squire and asked him whether
he would like to finish the whipping business that day, and Sancho
said it made no difference to him when he did it; he only made a
suggestion that he thought he would prefer to do it among the trees as
they seemed to help him bear the pain miraculously. But on second
consideration Don Quixote deemed it advisable to put it off till a
later time, when they were closer to their village, in case Sancho
should have a breakdown as a result of his flogging himself. Their
conversation came to an end when Sancho began to shoot proverbs at his
master out of the corner of his mouth at such a speed that Don Quixote
was overwhelmed and tore his hair in desperation.



When they had left the inn that day Don Quixote and his squire
traveled all through the night, and the following morning they arrived
at their own village, from which they had been absent so long.
Among the first to meet them were the curate and Samson Carrasco, who
had discovered at a distance the red robe the Duchess had given to
Sancho as a memento of their friendship. Sancho had thrown it over his
donkey and the discarded armor, and it shone in the morning sun as
brightly as a fiery sunset. Dapple was also adorned with the miter,
which proudly crowned the beast's head.

CRIES."--_Page 333_]

When Don Quixote saw his old friends, he dismounted and embraced them;
and all the little boys in town came running to see the sight of
Dapple and the returning revivers of knight-errantry. They called out
to their playmates: "Come here, fellows, and see how Sancho Panza's
donkey is rigged out; and take a look at Don Quixote's horse: he is
leaner than ever!"

As they walked through the village, it was a whole parade that
followed them; and at Don Quixote's house they were received by the
niece and the housekeeper, who had already heard of the return.

Teresa Panza, too, had been given the news, but she was sorely
disappointed when she ran out with her two dirty children to welcome
the returning Governor. She scolded him soundly for coming home
dressed like a vagabond. But Sancho told her to put a clamp on her
tongue, for he did bring her money, at any rate, he said. Then his
daughter fell on his neck and kissed him, and in the next instant the
whole family had dragged him inside their little cottage.

Don Quixote shut himself in with the curate and the bachelor, as soon
as he had entered his house, and related to them the sad story of his
defeat, and the promise he had made to the Knight of the White Moon;
and then he broached his new idea, that of turning shepherd. He told
his friends he had chosen new names for them, for he hoped that they
would share his new life with him; and they at once praised his scheme
and promised that as shepherds they would accompany him in his pursuit
of happiness. Samson added that he would be an especially valuable
member of the pastoral colony, for he knew how to write poetry, and
would devote his time to singing the praises of their simple life. Of
course, there must be shepherdesses, too, Don Quixote ruled, and they
could be represented by such modest and virtuous women as Dulcinea and
Teresa Panza.

When they had conversed in this pleasant manner for some time, the curate
and the bachelor left, begging Don Quixote to take good care of himself
and to eat plentifully. As soon as they had departed, the niece and the
housekeeper, who had overheard the three men, entered the late knight's
room and begged him not to turn shepherd saying that his health was not
such as to allow him to dwell in the open in the damp night air; sooner
or later he would succumb, they said, and take ill and die. They were
both agreed that the foolishness of knight-errantry was much better than
this craze. They entreated him to remain at home, to go to confession
often, and to indulge in doing good deeds and being kind to the poor,
instead. But Don Quixote would have none of their advice. He told them he
knew where his duty lay. Then he implored them to put him to bed, saying
that they ought to know he had always their interest at heart, no matter
what happened.

The two women began to weep, and then they helped Don Quixote to bed,
and there they did all they could to make him comfortable, and gave
him something to eat.



The following day Don Quixote did not rise from his bed, and he was
taken with a fever which kept him in bed for six days. All this time
his faithful Sancho remained at his bedside; and his friends, the
curate, the barber and the bachelor, visited him frequently. They all
did what they could, for they seemed to sense that the sickness was
brought on by the sad thought of his having been forced to give up his
great hope of reviving knight-errantry.

When the doctor was sent for, he said frankly that it was time for Don
Quixote to turn his thoughts to his soul; and when the niece and the
devoted housekeeper heard this, they began to weep bitterly. The
physician was of the same opinion as the curate and Don Quixote's
other friends: that melancholy and unhappiness were the cause of the
present state of his health.

Soon Don Quixote asked to be left alone, and then he fell into a long
sleep, which lasted over six hours. It provoked the anxiety of the two
women, who were afraid he would never wake up again. At last he
awoke, and as he opened his eyes he exclaimed in a voice of exaltation
and joy: "Blessed be the Lord Almighty, who has shown me such
goodness! In truth his mercies are boundless, and the sins of men can
neither limit them nor keep them back!"

The niece was struck by the unusual saneness of these words. She asked
Don Quixote gently what he meant, and what sins of men he was speaking
of. He replied in a voice full of calmness and serenity that God had
just freed his reason, for he realized now how ignorance in believing
in the absurdities of the books of chivalry had distorted his mind and
vision so sadly. He regretted, he said, that he saw the light so late
in life that there was no time for him to show his repentance by
reading other books, which might have helped his soul. Then he begged
his niece to send for the curate, the bachelor Carrasco, and the
barber, as he wished to confess his sins and make his will before he
departed from this earth.

The moment the three friends stepped over the threshold to his
chamber, he called out happily: "Good news for you, good sirs, that I
am no longer Don Quixote of La Mancha, but Alonso Quixano, whose way
of life won for him the name of the Good." And he went on to say how
he now loathed all books of chivalry which had brought him to the
state he was in, and how happy he was in the thought that God had made
him see his folly. The three men could only think that this was some
new craze of their friend's and tried to persuade him not to talk
thus, now that they had just got news of his peerless Dulcinea and
were all of them about to become shepherds in order to keep him
company; and they begged him to be rational and talk no more nonsense.
But soon they realized that Don Quixote was not jesting, for he begged
them to send for a notary, and while the bachelor went to fetch him,
the barber went to soothe the women; and the curate alone remained
with Don Quixote to confess him.

When the good curate came out after the confession, the women gathered
about him and when he told them that Don Quixote was indeed dying,
they broke into sobs, for they loved him genuinely and dearly. The
notary then came, and Don Quixote made his will. The first person he
thought of was his faithful and beloved companion, Sancho Panza, whose
simplicity and affection he rewarded by leaving him all the money of
his own that was now in Sancho's possession. Had he had a kingdom to
give him, he said, it would scarcely have been sufficient reward for
all that Sancho had done for him. Then turning to Sancho, who stood at
his bedside with tears in his eyes, he said to him: "Forgive me, my
friend, that I led thee to seem as mad as myself, making thee fall
into the same error I myself fell into, that there were and still are
knights errant in the world."

"Ah," said Sancho, in a voice that was choked with tears, "do not die,
master, but take my advice and live many years; for the foolishest
thing a man can do in this life is to let himself die without rhyme or
reason, without anybody killing him, or any hands but melancholy's
making an end of him. Come, do not be lazy, but get up from your bed
and let us take to the fields in a shepherd's trim as we agreed!
Perhaps behind some bush we shall find the Lady Dulcinea disenchanted,
as fine as fine can be. If it be that you are dying of vexation at
having been vanquished, lay the blame on me, and say you were thrown
because I girthed Rocinante badly."

But although Samson Carrasco tried to persuade the dying knight that
Sancho had reasoned rightly, they at last came to the conclusion that
Don Quixote really was in his right senses, and that God had worked a

They now let the notary proceed and one of the stipulations in the
will was that if his niece, Antonia Quixana, ever married a man who
had read books of chivalry, she should by so doing forfeit all that he
had left to her, and instead it would go to charity. Another clause
contained a request to the executors to offer his humble apologies to
the author of the Second Part of "The Achievements of Don Quixote of
La Mancha" for his having committed so many absurdities that had been
a provocation to the author to write this book.

When he had dictated the last words of his will, a sudden faintness
came over Don Quixote, and for three days after that he was in a state
between life and death. At last the end came, and he passed away so
calmly that the notary felt compelled to confess that he never had
read of any knight errant in the whole wide world who had breathed his
last breath so peacefully.

The bachelor, Samson Carrasco, wrote am epitaph for his tomb; and
there is written on a tombstone in a little village of La Mancha the
praise that those who knew and loved the valiant and doughty, yet
gentle Don Quixote of La Mancha felt in their hearts for him, whose
last wish was that he might die as Alonso Quixano the Good.


       *       *       *       *       *

Transcribers' note:

The Title Page of this book credits Arvid Paulson and Clayton Edwards
as being the authors of this work. The original Don Quixote of The
Mancha was written, in Spanish, by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra around
1605. It has been translated into many languages and editions. This
book is based on Cervantes' story. The catalogue of the Library of
Congress lists Cervantes as the author of this book, and Paulson and
Edwards are included as "related names."

Variations in spelling, such as grey/gray or pretence/pretense have
been left as they appear in the original book.

Some items that appear to be typographic errors have been changed
as follows.

Page 28 Corrected Neverthelesss to remove extra "s".

Page 63 Corrected imcomparable to incomparable.

Page 130 Corrected hilarously to hilariously.

Page 231 Corrected sacrilegeous to sacrilegious in the passage that
read "When the confessor heard the sacrilegeous conversation".

Page 237 Corrected Doño to Doña in the passage that read "and told
her of the incident with Doño Rodriguez".

Page 246 Corrected expresseed to expressed.

Page 257 Deleted superfluous "to" in the passage that read "he
confided to to his master the resemblance in voice and appearance".

Chapter LIII Page 277 "and lifted him up from his vertical position."
has been left as it appears in the book, although the intent would
appear to be "horizontal" rather than "vertical".

Chapter LXII Page 306 In the passage that reads "After having acted in
the most mysterious manner, and having carefully ascertained that all
the doors to the room were shut and no one listening, Don Quixote
swore the knight to secrecy." Don Quixote has been changed to Antonio
as this appears to be a typographic error as Don Quixote is the knight
in question.

Page 309 Changed lead to led in the passage that reads "through a tube
that lead from the inside of the head".

Page 317 Corrected Stubborness to Stubbornness in the passage that
read "but Sancho was unflinching in his stubborness and insisted".

Page 328 Corrected to affliction in the passage that reads "in time be
cured of his strange affiction".

Changes Have Been Made to Table of Contents As Follows.

Volume I


Which Treats of What Befell All Don Quixote's Party at the Inn

The table of contents read "at the End". It has been amended to "... at
the Inn" to match the chapter heading

Volume II


Of the Strange Adventure Which Befell the
Valiant Don Quixote with the Bold Knight of the Grove

The table of contents read "of the Mirrors" It has been amended to
"of the Grove" to match this and the next chapter heading and sense
of the story line.


How Sancho Panza Was Conducted to His Government; and of
the Strange Adventure That Befell Don Quixote in the Castle

"Ad" in adventure was missing from the table of contents which read
"Strange Venture". It has been amended to match the chapter heading.


Wherein Is Set Forth How Governor Sancho Panza's Wife Received a
Message and a Gift from the Duchess; and also What Befell the Page Who
Carried the Letter to Teresa Panza

The table of contents went on to add "Sancho Panza's Wife" to the end
of the above listing. This has been removed to agree with the chapter


Which Treats of How Don Quixote Again Felt the Calling of
Knight-errantry and How He Took Leave of the Duke, and of What
Followed with the Witty and Impudent Altisidora, One of the Duchess'

Deleted "s" from "callings" in contents listing

In the html version, capitalisation of the Table of Contents has been
modified to agree with each applicable chapter heading.


******* This file should be named 29468-8.txt or *******

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